Journey from God
by pisces97
Summary: Eve Masters isn't your typical teenager. Dean and Sam Winchester aren't your typical hunters. And when they all crash together under the strangest of circumstances, Eve quickly forgets her horrible past and looks to her future with the Winchester boys. But there is one catch. Her time is limited with the Winchesters. And God has sent one specific angel to be the messenger.
1. Prologue

Prologue:

I had lived in fear for as long as I could remember.

My life is different than most other teenagers, though no one would notice, or care, because I put on a pretty convincing show outside my prison. My name's Evangeline Masters and if you ever call me by my first name, I will cringe at the ugliness that it is. It was great for my grandmother's grandmother, but not me. I prefer to be called Eve. Not that anyone would know that, seeing no one really cares about me at all. I am invisible to most eyes and I want it to stay like that.

For one, I've learned to accept my nonexistence in their eyes. It hurts less than the bruises at least. Yeah, that's right. Bruises. And cuts, scrapes, and scars. I'll tell you about it and only because it has a lot to do with the real story. So save your pity for someone who actually needs it.

They dominate and plague my body like an illness I can never get rid of. Like my own up close and personal Black Death. My scars are the ravenous shadows of wounds I once bore on the expanse of my body. Years and years' worth of old damage done unto me, I hide under layers upon layers of clothes in hopes that they will all somehow disappear. That the ugly would lift away. That my canvas would be wiped clean of the horrid tears and distortions underneath my fabric.

Then I guess it would only leave a new slate for my father. So he could paint me black, blue, and red, all over, and over, and over again.

But you wouldn't expect Lloyd Masters, owner of virtually all corporate surf shops on the west coast of the country, community activist, and your typical present-day aristocrat living in a nice gigantic house with four shiny and expensive cars out front, to be the criminal you read about in your spruced up news articles. This man is real. This man is a monster.

And like I said, I have been living in fear for as long as I could remember.

And that is exactly what all monsters feed on.

Now, the real story? Well that's a real elmer joke right there. I know you won't believe me and I honestly don't expect you to. But I believe it's a story worth telling and it's very important to me, so pull up a chair amigo because it's gonna be a doozy.


	2. Chapter 1

Chapter One:

_In the dark with my demons_

_Wishing I was somewhere else_

_While they whisper little evils_

_I would rather rot_

_Diseased and alone_

_Than feel your strike again_

_I would rather die_

_Than spend another minute with you_

In my practiced penmanship I scribbled these eight simple lines down on a blank page in my composition notebook. After staring at it for infinity, I deduced that it was skimming in as mediocre and I was an incompetent writer. I set my pen down and yanked the page from the book, the sounds of paper ripping as I tore filled the quiet classroom and switched to loud crumpling as I balled it up. Once it was in a tightly packed sphere, I got up from my desk and walked the four paces to the nearest trashcan where I dumped the sorry thing.

Eyes followed me back to my seat, and I ignored them all. I got the impression that my 'peers', for lack of a better word, were all disgusted at my disturbance. I wasn't phased by the air of annoyance that now leaked about the room.

But then again, I wasn't phased by most things nowadays. I learned to survive by going through the motions.

I get up, get smacked around by my father, go to school half the day pretending I'm a ghost (or rather, everyone _else _pretending), I go home, and then get beat around until I blackout…only for it to start up again when I awoke. Yes, I am my father's product. Yes, I am only a drone moving according to my calibrations.

But this is how I get by. This is how I survive and it's all I can really ask for—survival.

I slouch down into my seat, melting into the hard plastic discs and metal rods, and hoping the dull, aching pain that lurked on my shoulder bone in the crevice of my back would subside. My father had hit me with an empty beer bottle there about a week before now, bruised the bone, and bloodied me up repetitively with the broken shards of glass imbedded in my skin. But that was then. I'm fine now.

And I'll be fine for—I glance up at the clock—another four whole blissful hours before I have to trudge back to my prison.

In hindsight, the world is my prison. I'm locked in this escape-proof jail yard awaiting the moment the bell rings for me to get back to my jail cell. His house isn't my house. I just live there. I am just a body, a figure taking up space. I'm not wanted. I'm just there; that's okay. I know I am nothing special.

Not that it is a bad thing—my being a space-filler. In my opinion, his massive house could use some less space and more clutter. Maybe it'd give me more hiding spots, where I could lay in a crumpled heap in terror, praying he wouldn't find me where I was. Maybe I just love the idea of a chance that he wouldn't find me and proceed to beat me to a pulp with the nearest form of weapon, or his fist, depending on his drunkenness levels.

I couldn't hide. I learned that a long time ago. But one day, I could leave. I could get away and never have to fear the wrath of my father again. I could be free.

I await that day. I would never admit this to anyone, but I pray too. I pray to the angels, I pray to God that that day would come soon. That my pain would stop. I even offer to help Him in any way I can.

I've been praying since I was six—when the beatings started. I am going to turn sixteen in about three months. Almost ten years.

Ten years of praying and ten years of pain.

I just want it to stop.

"Psst. Hey," the girl behind me tapped my shoulder. I winced at the seemingly harmless touch—an automatic reaction to any sort of physical contact (not to mention, she unknowingly pressed into one of my bruises that hurt like a mother).

"Yeah," I breathed, still facing forward. I ignored the throb of pain in my shoulder and I hoped she hadn't noticed my wince earlier.

"Can I borrow a pencil? Mine just broke." I think her name is Katy Digger.

I nodded and handed her a mechanical pencil from the open front pocket of my book bag. Then I turned back around to stare at my empty (and ripped) page in my composition book.

Approximately ten minutes later, the bell rang for us to file to our next class. My teacher, Mr. Gallaghan, took it as his chance to say, "Place your books in the bin and remember: test on Thursday!"

I slowly zipped up the pocket on my backpack and slung a strap over my better-of-the-two shoulders. I ignored the scraping pain the material from the bag made against my clothes, which in turn scratched across my healing wounds. My nose scrunched up and I almost winced again. I walked up to the plastic bin at the front of the room, dropped the half-filled notebook in and then walked to my next class.

Another round of sitting in a desk and listening to a lecture. This time it was about the subatomic attractions and reactions between the different elements of the Periodic Table. Ah, Chemistry, how I don't care about thee.

After that, it was another fifty-five minutes in my next class, Spanish II. And then I boarded the bus that would take me back to where I lived.

It wasn't all bad—going home. I usually had two hours to myself; to prepare, before he came home. Today wasn't different.

I approached the wrought iron gates and pressed in the code on the keypad. I waited for the opening to be wide enough for me to slip through. While walking up the long driveway, I observed that my dad's '66 corvette was gone. Judging by its nihility, I knew my father was still at work.

I passed his three other cars on my way up to the door, where I keyed in another code on the lock of the door handle. I turned the knob when the lock clicked within the door itself. Once I shut the door, locked it and immediately climbed up the stairs to my small room on the third floor. I locked the door to my bedroom, too.

On my way up, I had slipped my dad's ipad (that I found carelessly set aside on his desk in his study) into my backpack and once I made sure I was safely locked away in my bedroom and by my lonesome, I turned the device on.

The 'insert code' screen appeared and I tapped in the code I deciphered earlier. He changed it on a regular biweekly basis—along with his laptop, desktop, and his multiple cell phones. Even the 'family' safe—all five of them.

Yes, you might say I became an able decoder. I also like to think sometimes that I could become a professional decoder for the government one day. But I guess, that's just one of my many daydreams.

Anyway, when I typed the code in, the normal screen popped up and I got on the internet—Xfinity to be exact. I usually use my two hours of solitude to watch my favorite TV show: Supernatural.

_Yeahhh…_I heard about it when people were talking about it in school and I genuinely became interested. And hooked, after I started watching. I'm a Dean girl myself, but I love Sam and Cas just as much.

I just thought you should know this…it's kind of important.

Anyway, like I was saying, this is how I spend my time before he gets home. Don't worry, I stash his stuff back where I found it (exactly the way I found it) before he arrives, because I don't have any of these things for myself. So I had to adorn some sticky fingers and an eye for detail, if you get my drift. It's another one of my gifts, I do have to say.

Ones that come in handy later on.

After watching two episodes in season four, I checked the time. My dad would be home in fifteen minutes, maybe less. Quickly, I turned the ipad off and returned it to its respective spot on the corner of his desk in the study and made a mad dash for my room, locked the door, and curled under my blankets awaiting the inevitable moment of his return.

I don't know how long I laid there, clutching my comforter to my chest, my eyes darting to and fro, but I could hear the door slam clear as day. I knew I had waited for far too little a time.

Heavy footsteps lumbered up the two flights of stained wooden stairs. A slurred voice echoed through the deep chasm of a house, more-than-gently shaking the hanging light fixtures in the halls. "I know you're here you little bitch," the 'ch' sound was exaggerated and the footsteps sounded on my level of the house. "There's a scratch," he gasped, heaving for a breath as he finally made it to my door, "on my brand new car."

He hiccupped and that's when the banging started. And the yelling.

I covered my ears with my hands, terrified tears already falling down my face as I cowered under my blankets. I tried so hard to block out the sounds—his vile profanity and the blows to the wood on my door. But they kept getting louder, harder, and closer together. I whimpered, cringing and praying it would stop.

Suddenly, the sound of splitting, splintering wood ended the banging. Between the hole in my sheets, I saw fragments of my white door being hurled across my wood flooring. I jumped when the whole door was kicked in; the sharp cracks the door made will forever be ingrained in my mind…

I knew it was my door by the sounds and because this was the twelfth door he's done this abuse to.

"You—did—this—to my car," he growled, struggling for a breath between his accusatory words.

I shut my eyes tight, blocking more tears from passage and hoped if I just kept them shut, this would all vanish. He would vanish.

When I felt the nip of cool air as the blanket was ripped off me, I started crying harder.

Then the sharp pain of flesh on flesh stung it's presence across my face. I screamed. He threw me to the ground, climbed on top of me, straddling me like a horse. Like this, he punched me in the face.

Over and over and over.

I was pinned to the ground, unable to do anything but feel the cracking in my jaw, the screaming of my body against the agony, and taste my own hot blood.

I screamed at him as he continued swinging, "I didn't do anything to your car! I never touched it!"

His breathing was coarse and heavy as both of his hands lowered onto my neck. They enclosed it whole and I gasped for breath, blood dribbling from my mouth and onto his arm.

I somehow managed to free one of my arms and clawed at his face in useless attempts to make him release me. He punched me once again in my eye, and I choked on my warm red fluid—silent at once.

He lowered himself down close to my face. My one good eye never strayed from his burning pits of hatred.

When he spoke again, I smelt the pungent odor of liquor thick on his heated breath, "Don't lie to me." He lifted up and away from my battered and bloody face and swung again and again.

It seemed like hours before he got up off me and the beatings ceased. He left my room and I lifted a trembling hand to my face.

I flinched at what I felt there and I flinched even more at the extra pain I inflicted on myself. I gave out a whimper and a little cry, tears blurring my vision and warming my bulging, hideous face as they fell.

I didn't want to look at myself. I didn't want to get up and dress my wounds. I didn't have the strength.

And he seemed to know that, too, when he appeared in my doorway once more, grinning snidely as his hand twitched.

I noticed he was holding something in that hand, though I could not make out what it really was. Fear gripping me as its prisoner again, he stepped over to me, wood cracking and breaking under his weight.

"You—lie," he told me, breathing intensely through his nose.

And then I saw him raise his hand and the dark object he gripped with colorless knuckles. I saw only a streak of black as it came down on me in a single smooth arc.

Then, nothing.

Blackness. Emptiness. Nothing.

Sometime later I awoke cloaked in more darkness, but I was sitting upright in a chair. I blinked and looked around, my eyes slowly adjusting to the lack of light. I moaned at the brand new round of pain my movements had cost me. Every muscle in my face screamed bloody murder.

Suddenly, there was light. And movement. And two synchronized clicks.

I rolled my eyes, seeing stars and trying not to. The bright spots in my eyes dissipated and I finally looked at the unbelievable scene before me properly.

First, I processed the two shotgun barrels pointing directly to my chest. And then I noticed the two people at the other, non-dangerous end of both shotguns.

Jensen Ackles and Jared Padalecki.

****Hello again readers. I finally decided I'd type up this fanfiction I've had in the process of writing, and I thought it was good enough to put up for you all to read. (: Please review; I appreciate them all! And remember: all recognizable characters, ideas, etc. belong to the respective creators of the Supernatural show.****


	3. Chapter 2

Chapter Two:

"Who the hell are you? What're you doing here?" Jensen yelled demandingly, his shotgun never straying from my chest.

However, upon seeing me—what I looked like, who I was, Jared's grip on his gun slackened and it lowered ever so slightly. To the point where I almost hadn't noticed.

No words could describe how bemused, shocked, and utterly _scared _I was. My good eye sped around the room. I was almost ninety percent sure we were in a motel room, but that didn't solve the full question as to where I was, nor how I came to be there.

Jensen jerked his gun at me, retrieving my erring attentions. I jumped in my seat and gripped the arm rests protectively when he shouted again, "Who are you? What are you doing here?"

I swallowed suddenly, my throat hurting. I recalled my father's iron grip around my now tender neck a brief moment before I had found my voice. "Trust me, I want to know just as much as you, Jensen."

His facial expression went from hard to momentarily confused and back to hard again in less than a millisecond, "Jensen? Why the hell are you calling me Jensen? Now answer the damn question—who are you?"

I blinked my remaining eye, being appalled into speechlessness. Surely he was joking. _He_ was Jensen. My eye flicked to Jared, who was silent in leveling his weapon. Yet his eyes stared forward onto me with a concrete surface, but a guarded, confused, and a slightly concerned under layer was present in the hazel rings.

_Oh my God._

"Dean?" I looked at Jensen with a wide one-eyed look (I'm sure if my other eye wasn't swollen shut, both my eyes would contribute to my gawking), and then turned my head to look at Jared, "Sam?"

I waited a moment for a response. Both of them stared back at me, trying just as hard as I was to decipher exactly what was happening. "Oh my God, this isn't happening," I said, "Alright, very funny. Where are the cameras? Where's the director? Kripke, hey man, not cool!" I shouted toward where I thought the rest of the crew would be hiding out.

Jensen side glanced Jared and he returned the look with a small tip of his head. Jensen shifted his weight, getting a better anchor on his gun. "Hey, how do you know our names?" his voice was not relenting in the volume and I have to say, he stuck to his character very well. I might even say he was his character. Both Jared and Jensen.

"How do you know our names? Tell us now or so help me God I will pull this trigger," Jensen threatened, not willing to take any chances.

Jared clenched his jaw, glancing again at Jensen.

Whew. These guys were good at their job. Not screwing around at all unlike their bloopers/gag reels, and on edge and tense—just the Winchester way. I considered the possibility that if I just went along with this, the crew team would pop up from behind the fake walls and yell "Psych!" and I could get away from this hiccup in my strictly regimented life.

But what if this was real? Not on the show? I considered that possibility too, but not nearly as long as the other likelihood.

I decided to play along. "With rock salt? Yeah, what good that'll do you, Dean." When I actually got talking once in a while, I was real sarcastic about it. I tipped my head to the side, going on seeing I had his attention, "You won't shoot me unless you have a cause and guess what? You don't. Sammy here isn't getting hurt by me and I'm not some supernatural manifestation. And above all, I am not a demon. Try the holy water. Go on. Try it. I know you need to do it just," I was forced to pause because I was suddenly drenched in a splash of wetness. I wiped my good eye of the holy water, "to be sure," I exhaled.

I was sure I visibly saw his shoulders relax as he held the metal hip flask in his hand. He fastened the lid back on top.

Sam was just as relaxed as Dean now, but still alert when he asked me calmly, quietly, kindly, "Alright, so you're not a demon. What's your name?"

"Evangeline Masters, but Eve is just fine," I answered. I felt like the witness of the killing in an episode that only responded to Sam because Dean's arrogant and feral dickness never worked.

Dean asked, "How did you get here? How did you find us?" his voice was cut down to an almost 'normal Dean voice' by now.

"I will tell you—"

He cut me off, "Damn right you'll tell us. You've got a lot of answering to do _Evangeline."_

Sam stared at Dean like "Dude, seriously?" and finally lowered his gun. But he only let it go as far as to his side. "Dean, calm down. She is obviously confused and not here to kill us, so will you just take a chill pill please?"

Sam then turned back to me, "Please, just tell us what you know. We promise we are not going to hurt y—"

Despite how cute and persuasive he was being, I scoffed, flinging my head to the side, "Oh come on Sammy," I rolled my eye, "I know you won't hurt me. It's not in your," my eyes flick to both of them, "rulebook to harm innocent people. Now will you put down the guns?"

They didn't move. In fact, they tensed up again and Sam clenched his weapon with a firmer grip.

"Come on guys, if you really did not trust me, you could just pull out the .45 and the 9mm you both have in the back of your pants."

When Sam set his shotgun on the wooden dresser next to him and Dean tossed his shotgun onto the bed behind him, I knew I was right. Thank God, because I was just going out on a limb.

I didn't move from my chair. See, I did not know Jensen and Jared all that well, but I knew Sam and Dean and they could arm themselves quicker than a flash of lightning. So I kept myself where I knew I was safe. In the chair—that wasn't very comfortable on my wounds or just in general.

"Now pull up a chair and let me tell you two kids a bedtime story," I said, superfluously exaggerating my sarcastic tone. Hey, my face was messed up, I was in pain, I was somewhere I have never been before, and I didn't know how I got there, so I had cause.

Dean looked almost surprised at my sass, but he definitely looked annoyed as he sat on the corner of the bed next to me, his hands resting on the edges (his left hand next to the shotgun). Sam grabbed another chair and pulled it up close to me, where he sat open-legged and hands clasped together. Both of them ready to listen to what I was about to tell them.

I told them of the show and how they were supposed to be actors, not actual people, and how I knew a lot about them both because of it. When Dean asked about the last job they did, I uttered only "Pamela.". Judging by the arch of his eyebrow and the jerk of his neck, it was their last job—I had come in right after the fact.

Then Sam asked what I remembered just before I appeared here. I told him I was watching TV in my living room and eating popcorn (like a normal teenager…but I could not tell them this) and then suddenly I was here.

It was a lie, I know. But I was not about to pour out my heart to them saying I was being beaten by my abusive father. And I also lied about the wounds on my body when Sam interrogated me about them.

"Oh yesterday, I uh," I scrambled for the best lie I could come up with under pressure, "My brothers and I were playing tackle football and I got messed up real bad. Those jerks don't hold back when a football is involved," I said.

"That's a pretty intense game of football," Sam stated and I half expected Dean to tell me to punch 'my brothers' back next time. His face spoke this, at least.

"Yeah," I agreed, "And that's all I know."

Dean stood up, "Well that's all fine and dandy kid, but this isn't a TV show. This is real. There are no cameras and this is no set," he motioned around us, his arms and hands doing some talking of their own, "My name is Dean, not Jensen, and that's not Jared," he looked to Sam who still sat in the chair in front of me, "That's my brother Sam and he is just as real as I am."

These two were _insane._ So, it finally clicked in my brain. "Well that settles it then. I'm dreaming. Must be."

Dean shook his head once and Sam pressed his lips together, looking at me pitifully.

Dean walked around the bed next to me, bent over, and retrieved the green duffel bag on the floor, setting it on the bed. "Sorry kid. No dice," he unzipped the zipper and took out gun cleaning supplies. He took his engraved .45 semiautomatic from under the back of his shirt, took it apart, and began cleaning; his movements the image of someone who has had years of practice.

"Alright," I had it. Done. I got up and stepped closer to Dean, "Let's say this isn't a set and you two aren't just acting. Why is this happening? Where am I? And how did I get here? How are you two _real?"_

Dean continued to clean his gun, his head craned over his hands moving fluidly over the weapon.

Sam exhaled, seeming bothered where he sat staring at Dean. He opened his mouth, about to talk as he got up from the chair. "As for where you are—North Haven, Maine. But as for everything else," he sighed, glancing around the room before looking back to me, his hands on his hips, "I—we don't know, but we will find out. You can stay with us until then. We—"

Dean coughed loudly behind me, staring disagreeing with Sam. He had suddenly stopped fiddling with the .45.

Sam focused on him, throwing up a hand, "What?"

Dean rolled his eyes irritatingly, his head going slightly with it. He threw the gun and cloth on the pillow of the bed, next to where the magazine lay and took his brother aside, roughly seizing his arm.

They walked to the opposite side of the motel room to talk (or rather, whisper) to each other.

I sat on the bed next to Dean's green duffel bag and peered inside. I already knew what he put in it from the show, but seeing all these monster killers and deflectors in person was just plain out awesome. I reached in and took out a knife way too big for the kitchen counter. I grinned—this was a machete, a vampire decapitator. I suddenly wondered if that was what they were currently hunting.

I pretended to examine the blade, but really I was tapping into the brothers' conversation.

Dean rolled his eyes and replied to something Sam had just said. Their voices rose.

"Dean, I'm not about to kick out someone who needs our help," Sam said. I didn't see his expression because his back was to me, but I assumed he was making his serious 'we have to help face'.

Dean retorted, nod budging, "We don't even know her or if she is telling the truth about everything. Sammy, think a minute with your upstairs brain alright? She knows everything about us but we only know her name and some crackpot story she fed us on a plastic baby spoon. Doesn't that seem kinda shady to you?"

"Dean," Sam wasn't having any of Dean's crap, "She's just a kid."

I set the knife, getting really tired of that reoccurring word. "You know, when you talk about someone you shouldn't do it while they are within earshot."

Dean peered past Sam, leaning to the side and pointing at me, "You know, you should really shut your cakehole. It isn't helping your situation."

I made a face when he turned back to Sam.

"Besides, we can't drag her along with us. We're on the job. She'll just get in the way."

_"Well excuse me,"_ I mumbled and Dean glared at me, leaning and pointing again, before going back to their conversation.

A minute later Dean finally cracked. "Dammit Sammy. Why do you have to do the puppy eye things?" he fumed, "Fine, if she attacks you, I'll be eating a burger." With that, he left the motel room, shutting the door harder than necessary. Sam and I heard the Impala start up and drive away.

Sam turned to me, rubbing his hand through his hair, "Right. Let's get you cleaned up."

I watched as he moved to the second bed in front of me and reached down to pull up a second duffel bag. It was already open and Sam had a hand in it before he even set it on the bed. I saw him pull out a first aid kit. Then he circled around the bed and plopped on its edge to where he sat directly in front of me, our knees almost touching because of the proximity of the two beds. He opened the box and rummaged around in it a moment before pulling out a bottle with some weird yellow paste in it.

I noticed the rest of the first aid kit wasn't just band aids and gauze. There were other peculiar little bottles with substances in them, both liquid and dry and of all different colors. Some resembled things closer to plants and herbs.

Sam saw me staring at the yellowy bottle and said, "It'll help with your eye," he unscrewed the lid, dipped in a finger, and applied it gently to my bulgy protrusions on my face.

I cringed at his touch, not from the pain but because he was so _gentle._ When Sam saw me draw back he thought he had caused me extra pain and apologized. There was no need; I was just so taken aback. No one has ever cared for me enough to dress my wounds. No one has wanted to help me like that. I just—I did not know how to react, so I sat there and silently wondered and watched him carefully administer the deep yellow lather to my eye.

When Dean returned, I already began to feel normal again. I held up an ice packet to the right side of my jaw, my scratches had been disinfected and looked to be healing, and the bigger wound on my forehead had a patch over it. Yeah, I still looked like freakin' Chucky, but I sure felt a lot better. The Aspirin helped a lot, too, in terms of pain.

Dean threw a plastic bag on the table by the door when he came in and fished for a burger, which he eagerly unwrapped and took a bite out of. When he saw me watching him, he stopped awkwardly and threw another sandwich at me. It landed next to my knee where I sat up in Sam's bed.

I glance at Dean and he goes, "What?" I'm not completely heartless." He took another bite.

I knew there was more to it. "Plus," I removed my burger from its packaging, "I can't eat if I'm a ghost, so you just wanted to be sure…again." I took a bite and swallowed. That must've been the first burger I had in years and it was delicious. I didn't care that it was being used to prove my solidity.

"Hey, what can I say?" he smiled, but his cheeks bulged from the food that was lodged in his cheeks. "I'm thorough."

_A thorough pain in my butt. "Yeah," _I replied sarcastically, devouring the rest of my sandwich.

A moment later Dean asked, "Where's Sam?"

I was so tempted to tell him I killed him and ate him right then and there—I don't know, but finally meeting Dean, he was a lot more moronic in person. On the show, he was funny and adorable but now it's all reserved and incredulousness and without belief. I guess I finally got a glimpse in on how it is to be in Sam's shoes and dealing with all Dean's BS.

But Sam walked in just before I was about to open my mouth and say it.

Dean said, "What's that?" with his mouth full when he saw a bucket in Sam's hands. Typical Dean.

"Ice," Sam replied, "for Eve."

I only felt Dean's eyes when Sam came over to me and switched the old ice on my jaw with the new ice in the bucket. He placed the new ice packet to my jaw and stood back, "You good?"  
I nodded, "Thanks."

He half-nodded and Dean threw him a burger.

"So, since we're stuck with you a while, tell us about yourself," Dean started after a while of us all being quiet, "Where do you live?"

"If I tell you, you'll just take me back," I said flatly. He could not fool me; he seemed to forget that—with the look in his eyes.

"Sounds like you don't want to go back," Sam said, studying me. Dean joined in a moment later.

"No, no. I do," I insisted, obviously lying out my rear end, "It's just I doubt my Dad would miss me. Plus, I was vacationing with my stepmom for a few weeks before I got here, so…" I trailed off. I was running out of falsehoods and had to start counting my lies.

"So what about your stepmom?" Sam asked.

"A real bitch," I exhaled aloud, "It's her I don't want to go back to."

"Okay," Sam said, "So that gives us time to finish up the case we have now."

Dean dropped his arms automatically, the burger hitting his stomach, and Dean stared at Sam. "Dude. No."

Sam stared back and for a minute, it looked as if they were telepathically communicating with one another.

Again, Dean forced, "No."

But I already knew who won this argument. And call me crazy, but I was actually excited to go on a hunt with these two brothers.


	4. Chapter 3

Chapter Three:

"So what kind of case exactly are we working?" I asked, with a bit more enthusiasm in my voice than I planned.

"Whoa there, Ducky," Dean addressed me, putting a hand out over the dinner table, "'You'," he pointed at me and then back and forth between Sam and himself, "is not included in 'we'. You'll stay in the car when Sam and I go in."

I glanced at Sam sitting next to me in the 50's style booth. He looked back at me and sighed, knowing how I felt then and there.

"Dean, she's already proved she knows a lot about us. And I think, with all that knowledge she has on us, she has a good idea on how we react to certain situations."

Yeah, I do.

"What are you saying?" Dean took a swig of the coffee in front of him, and I from the orange juice in front of me.

Sam's hands dropped to the table and pulled his tiny white coffee cup closer to him. "I dunno, but maybe she can handle herself in there."

Dean took his leveled gaze from Sam and planted it on me. He measured me a moment, "Do you know how to shoot?"

"A gun?"

He looked at me like I was some sort of joke. "Oh yeah, Sammy. This is a _great_ idea. Yes a gun. With bullets—we don't mess with the plastic, water-shooting crap."

"Maybe you should," I retorted smartly.

"And get us both killed?" Dean replied, his voice added in tone but not in volume.

"Fill 'em with holy water, Lardo." I suppressed the urge to roll my eyes, and for a moment Dean and I stared at each other, challenging.

Sam cleared his throat, "I think she's made her point. I'll go do some research at the library in town, maybe check some files, and you two go out to that field we passed on our way in here," he looked at Dean and then spoke to me, "Dean'll teach you how to shoot."

I began to object but I stopped myself swiftly. Sam had made up his mind; once that was done, it was hard to convince him otherwise.

Dean rolled his eyes as Sam took his jacket in hand and stood. He slipped it on, "If you ask nice Eve, he might teach you a few tricks with a knife, too, and how to protect yourself if you get in trouble," he told me, "You two play nice." Sam shot Dean a look before leaving the diner.

Dean grumbled to himself, snatching his wallet from his pocket and flinging a few folded bills on the table. He mouthed 'I hate babysitting' and wallowed in self-pity before scowling at me.

"You done crying now?" I asked, my stare solid.

His eyes flicked to the side in an odd half-eye-roll thing. "Let's go."

We left the diner, climbed into the Impala (after a short dispute on whether I sit in the front seat or not), and drove for the edge of town. The field itself was out by the town limits, with overgrown greenish-brown grass and a few fallen logs in a decaying huddle towards the middle.

After pulling off the road and into the grass on the shoulder, Dean got out of the Impala and slammed the door behind him. After he tossed his keys up in the air and let them fall gracefully back into his hand, he swiveled in his shoes, turning to me as I climbed out of the car. "We can use those trees over there," he tipped his head back over his shoulder, to the mound of fallen trees and underbrush.

I nodded, stepping around the trunk of the car.

Dean moved to it too, and opened the trunk. He grabbed a shotgun and used it to prop open the trunk. He rubbed his hands together, "Great, now which one are you least likely going to end up misfiring and kill me with?" he exhaled.

"Your guns don't misfire on their own. You can't afford that kind of uncertainty," I commented, my eyes greedily taking in the different weapons in front of me. Knives of all shapes and sizes, shotguns, rifles, a yellow boy, flare guns, handguns, tasers, and even a crossbow had their own compartment—ammo and cartridges, too.

"You're a real know-it-all aren't you Evie?"

"It's just 'Eve'." He ignored me and sorted through his assortment of guns like it was candy. He pulled out a shotgun and handed it reluctantly over to me, like a mother handing her new born to a someone she just met.

"This here is a Boxlock Double Barrel shotgun—well sorta. We made it to shoot rock salt instead of shells. I figure, if you're gonna learn to shoot, you gotta start with this first. Deflects most dead sons of bitches," he sounded as if he was trying to impress me. He paused, remembering, "But you already knew that."

"Yeah," I admitted, totally ignoring his implied rhetorical question and admiring the shotgun in my hands. It was sorta heavy, like holding a bag of rocks (and why you would do that, I do not know), and had silver plates and engravings around the midsection of the gun.

Dean opened the back door of the car and pulled out a beer cooler from the backseat. He lifted the lid, "Damn. Only one left." He looked distastefully into the cooler and took out the remaining beer bottle in there. I realized by what he meant 'only one left' because it was the only unopened one—multiple empty glass bottles clinked together in the cooler. He twisted the cap off the beer and guzzled a quarter of the beverage before picking the cooler up again and started walking to the center of the field.

I followed close behind him, carefully holding the gun in my hands.

Once by the pile of fallen trees, Dean reopened the cooler and set the many…many empty beer bottles all in a neat line across the log in the very front. When he finished, he shut the cooler lid and half-jogged a few yards away, careful not to slosh the beer in his hand.

"Come here," he instructed, taking another sip of the beer.

I did what he said, sort of caressing the gun like I was afraid I'd hurt it. When I stood next to him, he took the gun from me and looked it over before asking me, "I'm guessing 'the show' didn't teach you the parts of a gun?"

I nodded my head and his eyes flicked away, "Of course."

I was really trying not to be my normal, stoic, smart-alec self, but this guy was just making it too damn difficult. I wished Sam would've taught me instead of Dean.

Dean held out the gun horizontally in both hands. Then he took one hand and began identifying the different parts of the weapon. "This," he pointed to the very end of the gun where the shots would emerge after firing. He tapped the tiny protruding piece on the top, "is the sight. Use this to aim."

Then he ran his finger across the length of the gun, "The barrel." He halted where the gun got bulkier and motioned to the whole thing, waving his hand over it, "Forestock. Supports the gun. Magazine. Bolt handle. Bolt."

He went on and on teaching me parts of the shotgun and their purpose. Occasionally he looked to me to see if I understood, and I only nodded, eagerly soaking all this information in. Finally, he handed me the gun, "Always use the hand you write with to fire a gun."

I switched it over to my right hand and leveled the weapon in front of me, my left hand along the underside and my eyes shooting down along the barrel to the sight mechanism. I had a beer bottle centered right on it, "Check," I muttered. And then I pulled the trigger. The force would've sent me hurdling back, but I was ready and had braced myself for impact. Needless to say, the power sent a bolt of force through me. It was awesome.

The bottle went down with an earsplitting crash of glass. The force wiggled the two bottles to the right and left of the bottle I had just shot down.

I jumped up, smiling, "I did it!"

Instinctively, I turned around; bursting at the seams and willing to show Dean the job I did—or maybe I just wanted praise. I'm still not sure.

"Fast learner," Dean was seemingly not impressed, puffing his lips out and half-nodding. "Good."

It was a short, flat note, echoing the sound of his not really being impressed. He also seemed like he hadn't expected me to get it right. I didn't really comprehend the mixed messages I was getting.

"I kinda have to be."

Dean blinked, catching my uttering words, but said nothing of it. "Reload like how I showed you and shoot."

I did how I was told. One empty bottle after the next was shot down. Glass clanged and zipped and echoed through the field, along with the sounds of the shots I was firing.

After a good hour spent loading, shooting, and reloading different guns (each one meant for something different), I ran out of bottles to shoot down. Dean and I looked at the scattered bits of glass thrown every which way lay in the dirt—shards, bottle neck, and ringed bottoms.

I turned my head to look at Dean as he still examined the destroyed beer bottle mess I had created. It was as if he was debating whether or not to clean the shards up.

Just then, Dean's cell phone rang. "Yeah."

But the way he said it, I knew it was Sam.

"What?" Dean swerved around to look in the direction of the town, his jacket flying out behind him. "Got it. On my way." He snapped his phone shut and started fast-walking back to the Impala.

"What's wrong?" I asked, easily keeping up with dean even though I was practically running.

"Sam's at the Hamilton place. He wants us to see something important."

"Someone died?"

"When don't they?"

He had a point. Death was everywhere in this job.

He took the gun from me and tossed it into the trunk and slammed the lid closed. His expression put forth my feeling that he wished he could have prevented it.

Guilt was everywhere in this job.

We got in the Impala and drove five minutes into a neighborhood on the water by a community pier. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. I mean, the houses were all nice and well kept. Every one of them was a craftsman house with beautiful hand-crafted porches and green manicured lawns and colorful gardens.

Dean pulled in front of a two-story, real-life-dollhouse looking house, complete with white shutters and the three tacky lawn gnomes in the flower garden next to the steps that lead up to the glass front door. He took one glance at the house, sort of grimaced at it as if it was too normal and hideous for his taste, and then turned to me, his keys jingling in his hands.

"I don't like this—you, being here. So if you pull a slipup in there, I don't care what Sam says, I'm taking you back where you belong."

I rolled my eyes, camouflaging my hurt. "Don't worry, you're getting rid of me after this job remember?" I stepped out of the car and slammed it shut.

Glancing up and down the street, I walked up to the door cautiously, yet casually, and tried the doorknob. I found it unlocked and let myself in. "Sam?" I whispered into the house. I already knew it was empty of anyone who might hurt us, but just to be extra careful, I was quiet.

"Yeah, back here. I hope you can handle the sight of, well, this." Sam's voice came from the end of the hall where I could see a fragment of the kitchen.

When I walked in I exclaimed, "Whoa dude! That's nasty!" I jumped back, stunned by the sudden smell of damp dead body. I caught myself after looking at Sam, and straightened myself, "I mean, that's horrible. What happened?"

I took a closer peek at the lifeless woman on the kitchen tile. Her limbs were at odd angles around her twisted body and her head faced the opposite way it should have, with her mouth slightly agape and her eyes wide open. She was blonde, seemed to be in her early 30's, and if she were alive, I'd say she was really pretty. But she was dead, so no America's Next Top Model for this lady anytime soon.

I also noticed the large puddle of water she was lying in. It stretched from the doorway where I stood, to where Sam stood on the opposite side of the room. But the odd thing was, the water barely coated the tile and the dead lady's clothes and hair clung to her as if she decided to jump in a lake fully clothed.

"My best guess is that Miranda here drowned. Which is inconsistent with the past two deaths this month, because in their records, it all said cause of death was a heart attack."

I heard the door open and Dean's shoulder and head peered in, leaning out from behind the translucent glass. I waved him over and turned back to Sam. The door shut and clicked—locked. Dean's footsteps came up behind me.

Dean's hand was over his shoulder, motioning with his thumb, "The neighbors said that the husband should be home after six. That gives us four hours to see what—oh, that's just awesome. " He stood next to me and dropped his arm, finally seeing Miranda Hamilton on the ground.

"Yeah," Sam agreed. "No EMF here either. I swear it just vanishes after it kills someone."

"You find any sulfur?" Dean asked.

Sam shook his head, "Not downstairs."

"You're hunting a _demon?"_ I questioned. I was hoping not.

"We don't think so, but it doesn't hurt to look," Sam replied.

"Okay," I said, "I'll go check upstairs," I turned to go.

"Hey, Eve," Sam caught me and I had to stop myself using the door frame as my brakes.

"Yeah?" I looked back at him as he took a gun from behind him where it was tucked into his belt. He tossed it to me and I caught it without trying.

"Thanks Sammy," I ran upstairs.

"Sammy? You're getting' real comfortable with her around aren't you Sam? Not even complaining when she calls you that," Dean sounded jealous almost, but definitely upset.

I heard Sam reply before I went out of earshot, "Because it's less annoying coming from her."

I smiled to myself as I stepped into the first room at the top of the stairs, gripping the gun at my side. At least Sam liked me.

I checked the window sills for sulfur. This one was clean.

There were only two other rooms on this floor, so I took it as my opportunity to soak in some detail.

This room was used as the home office, it looked like. A desk and desk top computer on the wall by the window, with a slideshow of pictures panning through on the screen. I stopped a moment to watch. This must be Miranda's family.

A picture with her, her husband, and (I'm guessing) her son, slid onto the screen. They were smiling like they were truly happy in that captured moment in time.

It physically pained me to know her husband would come home to the horrific scene downstairs. And to have to tell his son he will never see his mother ever again? My heart hurt.

I switched my eyes to look at the photos that hung on the wall. Baby pictures, their son on a swing set, wedding photos, and even goofy informal ones where they made monkey faces and pig noses at the camera, were all included in the mural on the wall.

Then I went into the other rooms. Again, no sulfur, and again, I absorbed as much as I could, so I wouldn't miss anything when I reported back to Sam.

I sat on the corner of the son's bed now, holding a picture of him and his parents hugging each other while grinning at the camera. The boy was only about nine or ten and was really into Star Wars and Legos—especially when fused together. He had posters and signed photographs from the actors hanging on the walls and a giant tub of Legos spilt purposefully across the floor. Half of an X-wing Starfighter was built next to the dumped pieces and a fully built Death Star was off to the side.

I subconsciously felt tears go down my face.

"Anything?" Sam is suddenly standing in the doorway.

I shook my head violently, roughly wiping my face clear of tears.

"Hey." Sam knew. His voice said it all. I didn't look, but I felt him sit on the ruffled Darth Vader sheets next to me. "You okay?"

"It sucks," I said, "How do you two do it? How come all this misery, death, and loss around you doesn't pain you after years and years of doing it? Sam, I feel for them. I wish I could take all their pain away—and it's only my first job. My only job. Just—how do you do it?"

The corner of Sam's mouth tipped upward in a tiny smile. "It isn't easy. But the reason why Dean and I get through it is pretty much all because in the end, we know we are preventing stuff like this from happening again."

There was an interrupting knock on the door. Sam and I turned; Dean was standing there, holding a rag in his hands.

He tossed it to Sam. "Wipe your prints. We gotta stop this this before it hoses somebody else." He went back downstairs, not waiting for either of us.

Sam gently pried the frame from me and wiped the edges with the cloth. When he was done he asked, "Where does this go?"

"Next to his lamp, on the table by the bed. Put the bouncy ball back in front of it," I answered.

He did as I instructed. "Come on." He looked at me affectionately, and extended one arm towards me.

I walked into it without a word and he wrapped his arm comfortingly around me as we walked back to the car. "Don't worry. We'll get it soon," he told me.

I did not want them to. Well, I did because it would mean they'd stop the tragic string of deaths from continuing, but I didn't because it would mean that I would be returning home faster. I did not want to go home. I wanted to stay here with Dean and Sam. I felt like I belonged here and in the last thirty-or-so hours I have spent with them, I've felt more loved than I ever have in the past ten years. And I didn't want that to go away.


	5. Chapter 4

Chapter Four:

Back at the motel, Sam and Dean immediately set to researching more on Miranda Hamilton—her background, her family, her connections with the other two deaths, and so on. Well, Sam did.

He sat at the rickety round wooden table with several notches in the wood and had his laptop in front of him with several tabs open on it. Next to and around his laptop, he had books—a little mountain of them with weird sigils and words in Latin covering their leather surfaces. Some were open to reveal the contents between the pages, and some had sheets of loose paper tucked haphazardly inside. Sam also had a few files in front of him and he sifted through the papers within them. Without a doubt, I knew that that was all secret, only-the-authorities-should-see-this type of stuff.

Dean however, rummaged through his bags and pulled out a freshly pressed and packaged-under-the-clear-plastic three piece suit and tie.

"Did you seriously rent that?" I asked.

Dean smiled at me, squinting his eyes, "Gotta look convincing for when I go to the coroner's later."

"Let me guess. FBI agent," I said after seeing him remove the suit from its plastic protector sleeve.

"That's Mr. FBI agent to you, sister. Now are you done in there? I kinda have a job to do."

I turned back to the mirror and peeled off my bandages on my face, ignoring Dean's impatient remarks. "Dang, Sam. What was in that stuff?"

"Herbs to help quicken the healing process. We use it like it's salt on French fries."  
"I can see why," I admitted. Two greenish-brown hazel eyes stared back at me, lacking the bulbous purple swellings that were once around them. By my hairline, the deep gouge was only a faint discoloration of the skin, and my jaw only tinged with pain every now and again.

Despite my obvious successful recovery, I made a disgusted face at my reflection and combed my fingers through my russet brown, chest length hair. I glanced down at my orange faded t-shirt, my old unzipped gray hoodie, white washed jeans, and dirty red converse, with a scrunched up nose. I looked back at myself in the mirror. The color in my face had returned long before now, but there were heavy bags under my eyes.

"Man, I look like crap," I said to myself.

Dean appeared in the mirror; in the doorway behind me. He used the reflection to gawk at me all innocent-like. A smirk quickly took his face over as he smartly commentated, "Really? Because I thought you didn't look half bad when your face wasn't screwing it up."

I wanted to not believe those words. It actually threw me back a few paces and I struggled to keep my face emotionless. "Oh hah hah. Turd burglar." I made a face and he ushered me out of the bathroom. I really tried not to seem hurt.

Before shutting the door, Dean spun around in the cramped bathroom, "Seriously, who says 'turd burglar'?" He shook his head, closing the door on me.

I padded over to Sam and pulled a chair up next to him. "So catch me up here. I feel like we're missing something and I don't even know everything there is to know."

"I have that feeling, too," Sam said, scrolling the page down on the screen of his computer. He stopped and sucked in a breath. "Okay. This is George Luther," he pushed a photo of a man towards me. He had a poufy grey streaked beard and crow's feet around his dark brown eyes. "He was the first death here, about a month back. Autopsy reports say the cause of death was a heart attack, but Dean and I asked around and found out that his wife had found him on their bedroom floor with plastic bags over his head."

"So he was suffocated?" I inquired.

"Yeah. I mean, the bag was stuck to his face like somebody used a vacuum to suck out all the air or something. But as I said before, cause of death was heart attack."

"Weird." It got me thinking. "And the second death?"

Sam switched the photo in front of me with another one. This one had a younger man in it with a business suit on, a clean cut shave, and a crooked, but friendly grin.

"Mike Harper died about five days after the first guy. He was bitten by a King Cobra. Odd thing is—"

"King Cobras aren't native to Maine. He didn't die from the bite, did he? Another heart attack?"

"Yep."

The bathroom door opened and Dean emerged, clothes fully in rented attire. "That's why I'm going to check to see if this is another heart attack. I can't wait until this case is over. It's giving me a headache." Dean grabbed his keys and stuffed his phony FBI badge inside his phony FBI suit jacket. "Tell me if anything comes up," Dean ordered as he left the motel room.

Minutes passed. Silence echoed through to the corners of the room—just the occasional click from Sam's mouse and the random shuffle of papers breaking the quiet every once in a while. I sat there and watched, studying the layout on the table.

"Can I see the folders?" I nodded my head to the three folders on the three murder victims. Or, um…spirit victims?

"Yeah," Sam approved without taking his eyes from the screen and handed me the three files.

I opened Miranda's and read through her entire biography. She studied medicine, was an established nurse at the local hospital, and gave birth to a baby boy when she was twenty-three. So I was right, her son is ten. Because it says here, Miranda Hamilton was thirty-three before she died. Then came a bunch of pictures of her and her family.

I did not want to look at those, for fear of tearing up again. Instead, I went over to Mike Harper's file and read through the pages of his life. CEO and chairman of a big shot company, A wife, Linda, and three kids, Thomas, Kelly, and Megan, and a hefty sum in all six of his bank accounts. This man had a life too, and I was sorry to hear…and see it end so quickly (I had pictures of his 'crime scene' in my hand).

I set those papers down and took up the photographs of Mike and his family. Seconds later, I blinked my eyes; not believing at what I know stared upon. "Hey Sam. What if I told you it isn't a spirit killing these people?"

Sam suddenly had his eyes on me. "What do you mean?"

But I had already scrambled frantically to the last folder. I flung it open and snatched up the pictures of George Luther and flew through each of them. I only glazed over each picture before going to the next one, my brain working like a super computer, before I abruptly stopped at the picture I was looking for.

"There!" I slammed down the two pictures of the two (previously) unrelated people on the table before Sam. I pointed to Mike's neck—more specifically, the black cord and rustic pendant attached to it, hanging around his neck. The pendant was more of an old coin with weird Arabic looking margins and writings plastered into the metal.

Then I pointed to the jewelry rack coincidentally placed just right in the corner in the second picture. It was positioned next to George and his wife with their chocolate lab puppy in what seemed to be their bedroom. The same exact necklace hung on a curly rung of the god awful atrocious jewelry rack.

"I saw Miranda wearing the same necklace in a picture when I was up in their office. You needed a connection. There it is."

Sam's eyes visibly expanded. "We need to get back to the Hamilton place." Sam dropped everything and stuffed his cell phone in his pocket, hurrying to get out the door. "If the necklace is still there, the family could still be in trouble," he exhaled, "That's probably how the necklace circulated so fast. Maybe it was sold. And maybe that's how it got to America in the first place."

"Dean has the car, Sam," I reminded him as I ran out of the room behind him.

"That's okay. He needs it. We can run to their house," he was just that determined to help these people. I admired that about him.

"What are you gonna say to the husband? He just lost his wife today and you're going to go up in his house like 'Hey I need this cursed necklace that killed your wife'?" We fast-walked down the street; panting while trying to look normal to the people going casually about their day around us.

"I'll figure it out when we get there. It's what Dean and I do all the time."

"Ah, the whole 'wing-it' approach," I popped a skip in my step to keep next to Sam. For only being 5'7" to his 6'4", my legs were a little shorter and therefor I had to work to keep up.

Just then, we came across North Haven Elementary school. It was a two story school building built of brick, and had banners of student artwork strung through the windows on both floors. Next to it, a solitary playground sat. It was childless, with the exception of one.

I halted.

Sam must've heard me drop back because he turned around to face me as he walked swiftly backwards. "Come on, we have to go."

"That's their kid," I said, pointing to the swing set. Miranda Hamilton's Star-Wars-loving son sat alone in one of the swings, looking down at the ground and kicking his feet at the mulch beneath him.

"I'm going to talk to him. You okay with going on your own?" I asked Sam.

Sam smiled appreciatively and hustled up to me. He extended his hand and put his phone in my hands. "The question is: Will you be fine on your own? Take this. Call Dean if you need help, okay?"

"Okay." I placed it in my hoodie pocket and zipped up the zipper half-way. I watched Sam go down the street and round the corner before I stepped onto the school's lawn and crossed over to the swing sets.

I approached the boy quietly, thinking of how I could talk to him and what I should say. By the way he held his head, I knew he was already told the news of his mother. He gripped the chain of the swing with one hand and dug his toe into the mulch, dirtying his Sketchers. He sniffed.

He'd been crying.

"Hey," I said. Should I have said that? Oh my gosh, what if I make him cry again? What am I even doing?

The boy raised his head and moved his dirty blonde bangs from his face. There were moist ribbons along his cheeks and when he saw me look at his tears, he swiped them away, blinking hard. "Hey," his voice was low and there was a catch in it. I imagined how he was feeling and smiled sympathetically.

"Are you okay?" Of course he wasn't! What kind of a question was that? I wanted to kick myself.

He shook his head and shoved the butt of his palm back into his eye.

I bit my lip. "Can I swing with you?"

He nodded and I sat in the swing next to him. "What's your name? Mine's Eve." I put out my hand and he limply shook it with a sweaty hand.

"Josh."

"Hey Josh," I smiled, "Wanna tell me what's wrong?"

He shook his head 'no'.

I nodded, accepting the need to backtrack. "Then I guess, I could tell you about me?" I glanced at him.

He stared at me. Not really refusing, but not really approving, either.

I exhaled, "I'm here in town for a few days, visiting family. Family reunions—they're fun y' know? But I couldn't handle my stupid cousins obsessing over things besides Star Wars. So I decided to take a walk and then I found you."

"You like Star Wars?"

"Oh, yeah. I love it. I breathe Star Wars, eat Star Wars, and poop Star Wars."

He giggled and it brought a grin to my face. "I like it too," he said, "My mom got me into it. She played the soundtracks in the car, had the books, and all the movies. She even has a toaster that toasts Darth Vader's head onto the bread."

"Really? That is so cool! Your mom sounds super nice."

He smiled and dropped his head again. "She died today."

"I'm so sorry Josh," my voice lost an octave. I knew this part in the conversation would come, and from this point on it was all serious business. "Can I ask what happened?"

"She drowned…in the kitchen." He was confused. And hurt. He didn't understand. "She was always afraid of drowning."

"I am so sorry," I really was. I wanted to comfort him and ease his pain very badly, but I wasn't sure how he would take it. I imagined not very well, because I was someone he barely knew.

So I settled that urge by reaching a hand over to rest on his hand in his lap. "My mother died too. A very long time ago—I was six. My Dad got rid everything that ever reminded him of her, so I could not keep anything to remember her by." It was the truth.

Then I got an idea, "At least, you have Star Wars to remind you of her. And I don't know, but maybe you would wear something of hers. Something small. It could maybe go around your neck." I did the motions with my hands.

Josh pulled something from his pocket. The necklace. _The_ necklace.

I tried not to show my amazement. He had it. "That's very pretty. I wish I had something like that from my mom. You are very lucky."

He held it out to me, the pendant dangled commonly on its cord. "Here."

"Oh," I couldn't speak. Why would he readily offer up a piece of his mother to me? I had not expected this. "Thank you." I still didn't know what to say, but I took the necklace anyway.

I did not want to put it on for obvious reasons, but I did. I did it for Josh; tucked it under my shirt and pressed it to my chest.

He smiled sadly and looked back to the ground. "Mom always said when you give kindness it will always come back to you."

"She's right," I agreed.

"And you're nice. I like you. So I want you to have it."

"I like you too Josh," I said. That wasn't a lie. He was a good kid. And even when his world was crashing down around him, he found the will to be friendly to others.

Just then, a honk came from the street. Josh and I looked up in unison.

The Impala was pulled up next to the curb, stationary, with Dean sitting in the driver's seat. He gazed out beyond the windshield a moment before turning to me.

Sam's head suddenly appeared out from behind Dean and he waved me over. He mouthed, "Come on."

I waved, kinda sad to go.

"Those your dads?" Josh asked innocently.

I wanted to laugh. They were not gay, but it was still so funny. So many people mistook Dean and Sam as homosexuals.

"Ah, no," I said, smiling, "They're uh—they are my older brothers."

I have to say, it sounded good to hear and it felt right when I said it.

"Do you have to leave now?"

I thought a moment. A wave of somber realization came over me like a heavy storm cloud. This case was coming to a close soon. I was leaving. Not just Josh, but Sam and Dean, too.

I didn't want to. Not now. Not after I—no. No, maybe I had to. I had to. Although I could tell Dean did not like me hanging around, he grew on me. Not just as the character but as a real, flesh and blood person. As an annoying, thickheaded, person who just happened to know a thing or two about the supernatural. And Sam. He immediately gained my trust. He took me in without a second thought on it and cared for me. I know because I saw it in his eyes.

I couldn't leave these two.

But I had to. This situation was still all too weird.

"Do you have to?" Josh asked again.

"Yeah. My brothers are waiting."

"Will I see you again?"

"Sure you will Trooper," I saluted him with two fingers and messed his hair up with my hand. "Keep your chin up and help your dad out, okay?"

He nodded his promise. I saw his eyes glass over.

"It will all be better soon," I told him as I stood.

He jumped up and hugged me. Squeezing the air out of me.

I hugged him back, after a moment of standing there, scrambling with myself on how to react. "Hey, it'll be better," I cooed and gripped him tighter. Tears of my own formed and slid down my face.

He let go and stood back. "See ya around."

"See you around." I walked back to the car.

Sam climbed out to let me in the backseat. I buckled my belt and Sam got back in.

Dean gazed at me using the rearview mirror. "What was that back there? It looked like you forgot how to hug people."

"That." I stated simply. "Was me working a job."

Dean pulled away from the curb and sped down the street. "Last time I checked, hugging little kids wasn't in the job description."

"His mother died today Dean." I felt my guard go up just by hearing my own voice.

Sam twisted in his seat, so he could get a better angle when talking to me. "Please tell me you had better luck than I did."

"No," I glanced out the window, "I didn't."

****Please review and tell me how I am faring so far! Thank you!****


	6. Chapter 5

Chapter Five:

We spent most of that night researching some more, hunched over the books and the laptop. All three of us—Dean and I flipping through bound pages and Sam reading endless amounts of passages on his laptop.

Sam and Dean were both stressed. We all were tired.

Sam had his hand up in his hair, gripping a clump of it tight, exhaling loudly. It was wearing him out—this search, but I knew he wouldn't quit until this case was solved.

Dean wasn't much different. He rubbed his bloodshot eyes and scratched the back of his head. He yawned after taking a swig from his latest beer. When he was finished with that bottle, he cast it aside with the dozen or so other empty bottles.

I shut my book, fed up. "I can't find anything, Sam. The pendant looks Arabic in origin, but nothing here even relates to it," I said. I felt so unbelievably childish and disgusting in my keeping the necklace from them. It was more than I intended—to lie to them like this. But I—I just couldn't let them finish this job. I wanted to stay. But this feeling, this awful feeling kept eating away at me. I knew this was wrong.

"Why don't you get some sleep? Take my bed. Dean and I will keep looking." Sam offered. He could see my eyes were struggling to stay open.

I nodded sleepily and slugged over to his bed. I crawled under the sheets and eagerly succumbed to the arms of slumber.

"To hell with this. It's two in the morning. I'm going to bed," Dean whispered. A book thumped shut.

He got up from his creaky chair and jumped into bed, burrowing his face in his pillow. His arms slid between his pillow and the mattress under his head and he kicked off his shoes. Dean didn't bother to pull up his covers before falling asleep.

Later that morning, I awoke to the sweet enticing aroma of Krispy Kreme. I was suddenly out of bed when I pinpointed the smell and opened the box that was left carelessly on the table. I put my hand in and fished out a donut. Still warm.

I stuffed it in my mouth and looked around the room. Dean and Sam were nowhere to be seen. Panic rose in my throat. I choked it down with sugary fried dough.

It was then that I noticed the note under the corner of the box. It was written on a piece of torn notebook paper:

_Don't worry, we'll be back. I convinced Dean it was a bad idea to ditch you. Off to do some digging. Be back soon._

_ -Sam_

Underneath it, in smaller, cramped writing wrote:

_Stay in the room and don't eat all my donuts or we will have a serious problem._

_ -Dean_

I pocketed the note and chewed on the last bit of my first donut. I grabbed another from the box and did just that—I left the room.

What? I was bored and had nothing else to do. I wasn't just going to sit around twiddling my thumbs.

I shut the motel room door behind me. Turning around, mouth full of donut, I stretched to the sky and closed my eyes, welcoming the bright sun to wash me in its warmth.

It was a beautiful morning. There were no clouds in the pretty robin egg blue sky and the motel was virtually deserted. Just the Jeep and the beat up Honda across the way remained.

I decided to walk to town. So I passed the two cars on my way out, crossed the street and meandered my way through town. I don't really know what I was striving to do, but I did it all.

I said 'hello' to everybody that passed by me, I played hopscotch with two eight-year-old girls named Jessica and Marissa, I climbed a tree to get a cat for a little girl who couldn't do it for herself, and I gave the rest of my donut to a stray mutt wandering the streets and I named the scraggly thing Baldwin. I thought it was funny and ironic, seeing he resembled one of those moppy-looking dogs.

I do not know how far I walked or how many new people I met, but soon, I came to a part of town that I didn't recognize. Trees loomed over the diminishing asphalt of the street. Bushes and grass were overgrown onto the sidewalk. Only a few houses were on this street, but from the looks of it, they hadn't had an owner in years.

I got a bad feeling about this place and turned to leave.

"Hello Evangeline. Nice day for a walk, huh?" My father stared at me, a fake ill-intended smile spread from ear to ear.

No, no, no, no. This was not happening. It couldn't. He didn't know where I went. He couldn't have.

I stepped back. Dread clung to my shoulders and latched on with its talons, piercing my skin.

My dad had found me. And I was done for. I would never see the break of dawn again.

"Dad," it was more of the breath I took. The jagged, frightened breath I took.

He stepped closer.

"How did you find me?"

"Come one, Evangeline. It wasn't that hard. You really made it all too easy. Besides, no one can really hide from a worrying father," his hazel eyes were stationary. Locked onto mine. His whole body reeked of lies and alcohol.

"Get away from me. You weren't worried. You never worried for me," I said. However afraid I was, I stood tall and held my ground.

I don't know what made me act this way—it was out of character for me…and so sudden, but I stuck to it like velcro. It was all I had now.

"Sure I did. I always worried. I worried that you would never see things the way I do. I worried that you would never see how useless you are in my eyes and in everyone else's eyes. In precious Sammy's, you are just a little kid who needs protection, so she won't hurt herself. It's all out of duty, not actual love. Nobody could ever love you. Look at you," he held out a hand and I could physically feel my walls crumbling; breaking down. He had a point.

"And that Dean fellow. You're just a waste of time and space to him. Your presence is a thorn in his side. In everybody's side. The only reason he tolerates you is because Sam refuses to see the lost cause you really are."

Tears fell down my face. I could feel it grow red with distress and anger. "I never said anything about Dean and Sam. You're lying! You aren't real!"

"_Fear is real,_ my dear." He launched himself at me.

I ran. I ran like hell. The necklace seemed to get warmer around my neck as I went further and further from him. It _was _getting warmer. Scalding hot against my skin. This damn thing was like and iron cattle brander!

I cried out from the pain. My skin burnt off and wisps of steam rose and then got swiped away by my pumping arms. I still ran—faster than I ever knew I could.

Until I was slammed to the ground. The unseen force threw me back and I flew into the concrete a few yards backwards. Though I didn't think it at the time, I was lucky my back took most of the impact. My head would have split open if that would have been the first part of me to contact the pavement.

Yet, my shoulders and my spine screamed for release of this torture. Pain shot through every limb, every part of me, and temporarily knocked the air from my lungs. I blinked at the sky above me, and then I flinched when my joints groaned and I scrambled to get to my feet. But something held me to the ground like some sort of invisible leash. The necklace.

I clawed at it, trying to tear it from my skin. I kicked. I squealed. I struggled. I was going nowhere.

My dad watched and laughed the entire time as if it was only a comedic film. He stood over me, a dark shadow of a man whose evils knew no boundaries. His eyes appeared to gleam as he stared down at me, pleased at the writhing mess I was.

If only Sam and Dean were here.

"Make it easy on yourself and relax sweetheart," my dad suggested.

I kicked at him. He jabbed his foot into my side. I was automatically stunned and coughed violently. My ribs felt like they got ran over by a bulldozer.

My dad clicked his tongue, watching me writhe and clutch my side. "Seriously, it'll only take a minute. I will be doing you and the world a favor."

It suddenly dawned on me. His intentions were permanent.

I gasped for air when he kicked me again. My eyes rolled and I tasted blood. I shook my head with what meager amount of strength I had and tried to say 'no', but my words would not form. My left hand grasped his pant leg and pulled. It twisted and drew back when he loomed over me further. A threat.

My same hand was smashed onto the ground by his boot. Bones crushed. Skin ripped. I screamed and pleaded to be let go.

Then he drew a knife. From where, I never saw. My dad knelt next to where I lay pinned. Carefully, he removed strings of my hair from my face and rubbed the blood off my bottom lip.

I stared, infuriated and terrified all at once. He was going to kill me now.

He ran the blade across my neck. The metal was barely there, like a tickle on my skin.

I gulped and whimpered.

With a revolting grin, the blade pierced the crevice above my collar bone. I clenched my teeth together and let escape noises of anguish.

"Stop!" I begged, "Please. Stop. I can't take anymore." I cried. I convulsed there on the ground, my body shook and I coughed up more warm crimson blood onto the sidewalk.

"Alright. For you, I'll make it quick," _I'm doing you a favor._ He raised the blade over my neck. It shone in the light. It was devastatingly beautiful.

"Hey, asshole! That's my annoying teenager you've got there!"

Dean!

My dad stood slowly. A gun fired—Dean's gun. Then my dad vanished. Gone.

Dean lowered his gun. He ran up to me and dropped to his knees. He took one look at me.

"Just in the nick of time. As always," I grunted.

"Son of a bitch. Eve, that was the spirit attached to the necklace wasn't—Dammit Eve!" he saw the coin around my neck. "Don't move. What were you thinking? You could've been next!"

"I—I didn't want—" I took a gurgling haggard breath.

Dean tucked his gun in the back of his pants and roughly pulled his jacket over it. Then he looked at me, silently telling me to shut up if I knew what was good for me. He hovered over me a moment, his eyes swimming over me and his hands in the air above my body as if he didn't know what to do with them. I closed my eyes a second and then reopened them when I felt I was being lifted from the ground.

Dean heaved me up into his arms and rushed me to the Impala.

It was a hassle for me to breathe. It was a mass undertaking to stay awake.

"Evie. Stay awake," Dean ordered, looking down at me. I could have sworn I saw fear in a layer of green in his eyes.

"It h-urts," I managed. Though with great force.

We made it to the car and Dean opened the door and set me hastily, yet gingerly, in the passenger seat. He ran over to get in the driver's seat, started up the car and sped off. The engine roared with speed untamed in my ears. The radio was dead silent. Time was ticking on.

It grew harder and harder to focus my eyes on any one thing. Throbbing, throbbing. Heavy heartbeat in my ears.

"Sam? I'm taking Eve to the hospital. She had the damn possessed charm the whole time! Meet me there, steal a car if you have to." Dean spoke. I know it was over the phone. And then he hung up and shoved his cellphone back in his jacket pocket.

I did not need to see his expression. I didn't need to know his head tilted to the side and shook with his eyes flicking across the span of road in front of us.

After this, I was surely going home. Dad was right. I was only causing more trouble for Sam and Dean. If I made it out of this, I would leave myself.

I closed my eyes.


	7. Chapter 6

Chapter Six:

Everything was hazy when I became conscious again. I lay prostrate on a cushioned mattress, my head centered professionally on a pillow. I immediately felt the tuggings of cords that were connected to all parts of me and I heard the steady beeping of a machine beside me.

White walls. Itching Lysol smells.

I strained in my binds and I pulled. The tubes in my nose slid, refusing permission to be taken out. The tubes attached to my arms pinched me and I let go a gasp of irritation.

"Woah. Take it easy, Eve. It's okay," Sam is suddenly beside my bed.

I let a sigh of relief escape me and dropped back to my pillow. "Sam."

"Hey," he smiled and moved a chair under him from between his knees. He sat. "How you feeling?"

I felt the tug of tape around my midsection and I, curiously, probed the area with my fingers. I found gauze and tape wrapped smugly around my ribs. Then my neck itched and I went to scratch it. My fingers were met with more tape and gauze over the spot where my father cut me with a knife.

I made my signature 'ew' face, my lips puffing up slightly and my nose scrunching, as I withdrew my hand from my bandages. "Like I could puke freakin' rainbows and candy," I replied sarcastically.

Sam smiled; a short chuckle proceeded from him when he looked at his shoes and clasped his hands together in thought. It was as if he had something on his mind, and it was troubling him. I could tell. It was the way he set his shoulders and held his head, not even bothering to keep his hair from his face.

"What's wrong?"

"I'm tired of secrets Eve," he picked up his head and his eyes found mine, "I want you to be honest with me."

I began to shake my hand, confused, "I don't—"

"The necklace was shipped here after some archeologists found it in an excavation site in the middle east," he began, punctuating his sentence there, "It is Muslim in origin and the owner was Inalchug, a Muslim governor from central Asia, and it was his prized possession. When he was ordered to be killed by Genghis Khan for executing some Mongol traders, he fled. Genghis Khan eventually found him and poured molten silver in his eyes—a popular technique used by the Mongols to slowly kill their enemies. And even though we may never know if he actually died from a heart attack, my whole point with this is that it was his greatest fear to be found and executed."

I exhaled. "The necklace conjures up the wearer's worst fear and uses that to kill whoever's wearing it," I said. I remembered what Josh said about his mom. It made sense now.

He nodded and pressed his lips together. "Dean saw the spirit that attacked you. From what he told me, it looks an awful lot like your father."

It was then that I noticed Sam's laptop in the chair behind him. I don't know why I didn't expect him not to do a background check on me. I mean, this is Sam for goodness's sake.

Yet, I was speechless for a moment nonetheless.

"You live in Tillamook, Oregon, but you were born in Norfolk, Virginia. Your Dad is the owner of a big surf shop company all throughout California and _isn't_ married to your stepmother, because you don't have one. Your mention of having brothers was a lie, too. Mind telling me what made you feel _lying _to Dean and I was necessary?"

"Look here buddy, I didn't lie to my brother about quitting my training with my psychic powers. You can't just get onto me for lying when you and Dean are sitting high and mighty on your throne of lies." I was getting defensive for good reason.

Sam sat back, his lips still pressed together and exhaled through his nose.

I rolled my eyes and played with the blanket fabric on the bed by my hand.

"When you first came to us the other night, you were pretty beat up," Sam started again, his voice calm, "You don't have to tell me everything, just tell me how that really happened."

"That would require me telling you everything," I remarked, flicking my eyes up to him.

But he already knew that. He waited. Mute.

I furrowed my eyebrows and rocked my head. I guess I was going to have to tell him. But first, "Where's Dean?"

"Melting down the necklace."

I nodded, biting my bottom lip. "I was six when my mom died. A drug overdose, the police said. She would never do that to herself, Sammy. She loved me and she loved my dad too. Now, I know that it was my dad who killed her. I know it was because she found him cheating on her and threatened to take me and leave him," my face went from dry to moist with tears in a matter of seconds, "So he killed her. And ever since then he's taken his anger about that out on me. I don't know what I did to make him this way because—because he beats me. With whatever he can get his hands on. For ten years he's done this and for ten years I have asked myself: Why? Why did he do that to her? Why me?

I looked to Sam, even though my vision blurred from the tears. "And I-I'm used to it, Sam. It scares me that I am used to it. Pain is all I have ever felt for so long," I cried. My throat was raw and my body trembled. I sniffed and swallowed, my chin jutting out in efforts to calm myself (to no avail). "Until I met you and Dean. I actually felt happy and wanted and cared for in—in forever and I had forgotten the feeling. I didn't want to let it go. I didn't want to leave you or Dean because that would mean going back to my father," I wiped my face as more tears rocketed down my cheeks.

"And I know Dean thinks I'm an annoying thorn in his side, but when that-that spirit attacked me, he looked genuinely afraid for me. I know he did because it was in his face. And you, you took care of me like no one ever has before. That's why I kept the necklace from you. I'm sorry, Sammy, I j-just didn't w-want—" my crying fits came closer and closer together. I had to stop talking.

Sam stood up from his chair. He bent over my bed and took my head in his hands. Sam wiped my face my face clear of water with his thumbs. He gazed at me with only what I can describe as his signature 'Sammy gaze', "You won't ever have to be afraid of him again. I promise."

Sam lowered his lips to my forehead as if to kiss it, but he only held himself there for excess moments uncounted—his mouth to my head.

I closed my eyes, happy. Regardless my situation.

There was a knock at the door and Sam let go of me awkwardly and looked to Dean in the doorway.

"Hey there Evie," Dean rocked from one foot to the other where he stood and then stepped into the room.

"Hi Dean. You melt down the necklace?"

"Yeah, I did," he answered, "No thanks to you."

I bent my head.

Sam clenched his jaw and glared at Dean.

Dean ignored him and continued, "That's why when you're fit to move, we're taking you back home."

I nodded solemnly. I expected it from Dean.

"Where is home, exactly? So I know how many miles I have left to put up with your crap," Dean rudely remarked. He was being mean.

I deserved it.

"Oregon."

He grunted and jerked his head to the side as if he was disappointed.

Sam looked to me, "Get some rest okay? We will be back later to come check on you."

"Okay."

Then Sam corralled Dean out of the room and they left.


	8. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven:

Dean and Sam walked shoulder-to-shoulder through the hospital halls. Each stared ahead, ignoring the other brother. They both were tense and annoyed by the other's actions and each too stubborn and blockheaded to say what was on their minds. Sometime, Dean or Sam (most likely Dean) would say something and set the fuse off for the both of them. Until then, they were both silent in their thoughts of how much the other was being a dick.

Approaching the nurse's desk, Dean got the attention of a pretty young woman with the attentive rise of his eyebrows and an agape smile. "Hey there Kathy," he attempted to smolder her with his smile. He and Sam stopped in front of her desk as she looked up to the both of them.

She grinned and flirtatiously moved some dark corkscrew curls off the shoulder of her violet colored scrubs. "Hello Mr. Beckett. How may I help you?" She batted her long eyelashes.

"Just make sure my daughter is comfortable. The whole car accident really shook her up and little things like an unfluffed pillow could set her off."

Sam could not believe what he was hearing. He gawked at his older brother. Dean was unbelievable sometimes.

Then, when the nurse named Kathy glanced at him, Sam cleared his throat and rubbed his nose, switching where he placed his weight on his feet.

"Sure thing Mr. Beckett. I will personally see to it that she's as comfortable as possible," the nurse replied.

"Great. Thanks." Dean had what he wanted, so he turned and they walked out to the hospital parking lot, several floors below.

Out at the Impala, Dean fiddled more than he needed to with his keys.

Sam stared at him, trying to figure out what his brother was playing at, and why he chose now to be a puzzle with a thousand pieces. He set his hand on the roof of the car and leaned into it, still staring.

Dean felt his brother's eyes and chose to ignore them. He unlocked the front door.

"You know what you are Dean?" Sam yanked open his door and climbed into the car, where Dean had already sat, inserting the keys into the ignition.

"A man too good looking for his own good." Dean smirked. He started up the car.

"No," Sam huffed angrily, really done with Dean's inconclusive actions, "You're insensitive and you're a dick. You know that?"

Dean quirked an eyebrow at his brother. "That a rhetorical question?"

Sam rolled his eyes. Dean smiled, taking pleasure in how peeved Sam was getting and backed up the car.

"You have acted like Eve's a major pain in the ass ever since she got here. And just now, you call her your daughter? You aren't old enough to be her father, Dean. Anyone can see that. You could have said you're a cop who got to the crash scene first or a random guy driving by when the accident happened. But you didn't. Now what's your deal?"

"What I want to know is why you care so damn much about it Sam," Dean retorted loudly, pressing on the accelerator. "Why do you care so much whether I think she's a pain in my ass or not? Why do you feel the need to protect her so much?"

"Because somebody has to!" Sam exclaimed. After that outburst, the sudden realization of what he revealed played onto his face. His anger and frustration out on Dean had caused him to slip and he automatically regretted ever opening his mouth.

Dean side glanced him. "What do you mean?" He blinked.

Sam continued, the earlier frustration gone from his face, but not his voice. Sincere seriousness and worry for Eve took over the contours of the little brother's expression when he answered, "You honestly can't see that she kept the necklace from us for a reason? She doesn't want to leave us because her dad beats the living hell out of her constantly and taking her back—Dean, that's a death sentence."

"Is that what you two were talking about back there?" Dean gazed at his brother. Of course it was. He chuckled and shook his head, "Man, she got you good. Must be, if she fooled you over."

"This isn't a joke. If we take her back, he is going to kill her." Sam wasn't giving up.

"And if she stays, we're gonna kill her!" Dean unexpectedly yelled over the voice of his little brother. His expression was the screen for all the conflicting emotions he felt inside of him then. "If she stays, she's going to get shoved into situations she can't handle. She is gonna see nightmares that even we don't want to see. She's going to get hurt. We are a ticking time bomb, Sammy. All our friends die around us—hell, we've even died multiple times ourselves, and you think we can manage holding this girl's life in our hands? We can barely keep everything else together in our own god damn screwy lives!"

"Dean, she has a better chance with us than she does with him."

Dean replied, "We are taking her back, and then we are moving on." Dean had had enough; his jaw was set and his eyes never moved from their fixed position on the road ahead of them.

Sam jerked his head to the window, exhaling madly.

How could he prove that this was murder?

* * *

I stared at the pitiful box before me, as uninterested as a rock to the ground around it. The woman on the screen talked about the 'various wonderful techniques to get rid of that unwanted blemish'. Please.

I changed the channel.

The news was better than infomercials on acne treatment.

"Hello Miss Beckett," a nurse in light purple scrubs entered my room. She was carrying one of those hospital food trays in both of her hands.

That must be my fake last name for the time being. Just hearing it made me smile. For this brief period of time anyway, I was somebody else. Not Evangeline Masters, but some Beckett kid…and it was awesome. I felt like a hunter, in my own weird kind of way.

"I brought you your dinner," the nurse walked up to my bedside, her snowy white medical shoes squeaking on the floor. She set the tray on the over-the-bed table and slid it over top of me.

I made a face at the gloppy looking stuff when I pulled the lid off. I don't know what I was expecting really, but it definitely wasn't chopped up cow's liver and brain mush (okay, I might be hyperbolizing it a little, but you get the idea).

The nurse lady laughed, "Yeah I don't care for hospital food either. But you get used to it."

I nodded, not really caring (just being honest here).

"Need anything?" she stood back, "Are you comfortable? Is that pillow fluffy enough for you?"

I tossed the small tub of peaches back onto the tray. "Lady, I'm fine. Why are you so concerned?"

"Of course you are sweetheart. It's just," she threw a thumb over her shoulder, "your father wanted me to make sure you were okay."

"My father?" I stuffed a buttered roll into my mouth, chewing with my mouth open obnoxiously on purpose, because I could.

"Yes," the woman's stature morphed from professional medical worker to the sloppy image of some lovesick teenager, "That handsome hunk of man with the lovely eyes."

I choked on my bread and had to set it down, keeping a cough from surfacing. _Dean?_ I wanted to roll off the bed and laugh hysterically on the ground until my lips fell off and my lungs dried out.

"What?" the nurse asked, seeing my expression.

"Oh nothing. Hey, what's your name?"

"Kathy. You can call me Kathy," she answered all friendly-like.

"So Kathy, was my…dad here with another person? He'd be really tall and looks like he hasn't seen a pair of scissors in a few years." I put a hand up level next to my head to charade 'tall'.

"Oh, yeah. He was. Is he your uncle?" By the sudden vanishing of the giddy lilt in her voice, I knew she didn't find Sam as attractive as Dean.

Which, I kind of found insulting, seeing I was 'related' to both of them. "Yeah," I said.

Kathy returned to my bedside. "May I?" she motioned to the end of my bed and sat without permission. Which made the whole 'May I?' question redundant and annoying.

"Sorry," she said, "I couldn't help noticing the look in your father's eyes when he asked me to take care of you. And before that, when he carried your broken little body in here, screaming down the hall for help. I just wondered about you two. Are you close?"

Now it hit me. The sudden realization that Dean chose to be my 'father' instead of some other random guy out on the street. I just wondered why he did that. It seemed…I dunno really. Odd.

"Well, I've known the man for what seems like forever," I admitted with a faint smile. It was the truth, though she would never know that it was from the show. "Him and my uncle. Why do you ask?"

"I'm just fascinated by interactions between people, the sudden subtle changes in the eyes of someone who cares about you, the way one's voice changes—I don't know. I'm just fascinated with people and their lives. It's one of the perks of my job, I suppose." Kathy seemed utterly passionate about it.

I bit into my bread roll again. "You'd love the life of my dad and uncle," I sniggered.

"Oh yeah?" she perked, "What's it like?" Kathy turned her body to face me, interested.

"Hectic." Dean stood in the doorway. Sam was slightly behind him in the frame.

Dean stepped into the room and crossed over the white tile to my bed. "Constantly worrying if my daughter would ever learn to stop texting and driving is nerve-wracking." His eyes were on me, never faltering as he sauntered over to me. He took the package of chocolate pudding off my tray and then seized the plastic spoon.

"Hi…_Dad," _I said as Sam moved into the room as well.

"Hello, _sweetie,_" his mouth was full of chocolate pudding by now. It coated his teeth in what looked like human excrement. He was trying to be a smartass like I was, but I couldn't contain it and burst into giggles.

Dean swallowed. "What?"

"Try to close your mouth next time Daddy-O."

Judging by the look on Kathy's face, she didn't find that little example…per say, attractive. And then, judging by the expression on Dean's face, he was rethinking ever even asking and seemed a bit embarrassed by his fleeting look away from the nurse.

"I'll leave you three alone," Kathy got up from the bed, received a nod of appreciation from Sam and then left the room.

"Oh thank God," Dean relaxed and put the pudding cup back on my tray, "That stuff is terrible. Don't eat that, Evie. That's chocolate flavored death in a cup. Here, I brought you something," Dean took out a burger from the inside of his jacket and handed it to me.

I went to grab it, but as soon as it was going to enter my awaiting hands, Dean snatched it away. Leavin' me hanging like a fish out of water. That asswipe. Couldn't he tell I was starving?

"Don't call me 'Daddy-O' again. Ever." He dropped it into my hand.

"So how you feeling about leaving early tomorrow morning?" Sam asked me as I unwrapped my gift from the heavens.

"Yeah, sure," I nodded, chewing. I didn't want Dean to know exactly what I was going home to and what was going to happen to me eventually. I knew it, but it didn't necessarily mean he had to. So, when Dean turned around to sit in a chair by the window, I shot Sam a look.

He returned it, seeming amazed and a bit confused at my lack of emotion upon the news that I would be returning to my house. To my father.

He shifted his weight from his right foot to his left foot, his hands on his hips.

Dean looked at him, reclining back in his seat.

Sam shuffled over to the plastic chair next to his brother and took a seat.

"What time are we sneaking out?" I asked.

Dean opened his mouth as if to say something, his eyebrows dipped, and then he clamped his mouth shut.

"Yeah. Remember, I know how you two work. The doctors would never let me leave with two broken ribs a day after they stitched me back together. But despite how hard it is for me to breathe because I got kicked to a pulp, I'm totally up for some 007 Skyfall action." I smiled goofily. Then I blinked, my face devoid of all humor, "Hey, you guys should get out. Having you both here—with Dean practically being a fugitive and all, it's not very smart."

"I think half the stuff we do isn't smart," Dean commented.

Sam nodded, "Actually, I think it's more than half."

Dean glared at him, shifting his body in his seat to portray just how much Dean was done of Sam's technicality on their stupidness. Sam looked away awkwardly.

"I know. That's why I'm telling you two to leave. Come back when it's safer," my voice was not wavering like I'd expect it to. Ordering Sam and Dean around was something I never intended to do and something on the line between dangerous and suicidal. They probably wouldn't listen to me anyway.

"Don't tell us how to do our jobs," Dean shot back, "I've been doing this for years—"

"And it's gotten you killed over and over again and had you dumped into the pit," I spat back. "I've watched it happen, Dean. I know. Now both of you, just go. I'll be happier knowing you are somewhere you're less likely to be noticed." It just came out. Without any warning. I wished I could take it back and shove more of my hard-headedness into the conversation.

Hah. So much for that.

"You'll be happy?" Dean stood, throwing out a hand, "I'll be happy when it's just Sammy and me, hunting sons of bitches all across the country, and eating greased up diner foods and sleeping in crappy motel beds, free of annoying teenagers who keep us from doing our job." Dean stormed out of the room.

Sam got out of his seat slowly and stood over my bed. He stayed there a moment, his hands in his pockets, thinking. "We'll figure something out," he said.

I knew he meant more than just the predicament between Dean and I over my wishing to keep them both safe. You know, besides their able-bodiedness to take care of themselves.

"Sure," I said. I was filled with overwhelming doubt. Sam was that single thread of hope for me.

And then, Sam followed after Dean.


	9. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight:

That night, the hospital wards were nearly deserted and the silence made my skin crawl. My room was pitch dark and just as quiet as the outlying rooms and halls. I had almost fallen asleep multiple times, but I was on too much of an adrenaline high to do so fully. And I hadn't even busted out of the hospital yet.

Almost too quietly, my door swung inward. Two shadows entered my room and a beam of light crossed the span of my eyes. I squinted.

"Rise and shine Evie. It's jailbreak time," Dean whispered humoringly as he and Sam both entered my room.

I ripped off my blankets and tore the IV's out of my arm. Excitedly, I pulled my hospital robe over my head and announced, "Ready," with a satisfied exhale. Then I grunted when my ribs complained at the build-up of sudden movement.

"Wow," Sam said.

I peered down to my red converse, jeans, shirt, and hoodie, rocking back onto my heels. "I learned a few things from you guys. I'm a convincing fake-sleeper if I do say so myself," I smiled, pocketing my hands.

"Not bad," Dean said, his face matching his words. "Let's go."

I rushed out behind them as fast as I could as they creeped back into the deserted hallway. "Is that a compliment I hear?" I harshly whispered, holding my groaning side. It was interesting, especially coming from Dean.

I followed close behind him, and Sam behind me; we slinked down the hallway. Careful and quiet were we.

"Hey. Don't press your luck, Evie," he replied, the flashlight's ray panning over the objects in the path before us.

"Stop calling me that. It sounds ridiculous."

"Nah, I don't think I will." He gazed upwards, the circle of light following his eyes. He switched the flashlight to the empty gurney up against the wall and then to the walls on either side of us.

All the doors were closed to the rest of the hospital; only some of the doors had patients on the other side of them. All of which were undoubtedly stuck in slumber. The lights were all off, with the exception of the tiny lamp on the nurse's desk at the end of the corridor. That same desk was empty.

"Dean. Sam," I whispered, my breathing heavy and the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end from the sudden chills (even though there was no steep drop in temperature). "Where are the nurses?"

"What I want to know," Dean started, as we came up on the desk, "is why poor old nurse lady would leave her precious kitten keys." He picked up a key ring. The handful of adorably fluffy kittens printed on the keys and key chains clanged together. He glanced at us before setting the keys down and marched to the double doors at very end of the hall.

He disappeared behind them.

Sam touched my arm gently and his eyes darted to the side.

I nodded, knowing what to do.

There was a hallway to our right, the direction to which Sammy had motioned. I tiptoed down it. I crept along, ducking under the windows to the various rooms belonging to the sleeping patients within them, feeling Sam practically on top of me.

We halted at the corner and scanned the hall we brought ourselves to. Sam removed the handgun from his pants and slowly pulled down the hammer with his thumb. Alert.

"'Get out of here' plan? Or 'go help Dean by sneaking up on the bad guys from the other side' plan?" I whispered my question.

"For you?" he answered, "The first option. Come on." He moved over to the opposite wall, holding his gun next to his cheek. I could see the muscles clenching.

_This was so cool. _The stakes are high and I'm sneaking around No Man's Land with one of my favorite fictional (or…not so fictional. Factual?) character. This is the best thing ever.

Sam rounded the corner and crawled slowly along the corridor. His eyes darted from the window on the wall to our left, down the hall, and to every door placed numerically on the wall to our right.

If only I had a gun. This could complete my whole image of being a hunter. Even if it was only temporary.

Sam flashed around, pointing his gun at me and I held my head back, my arms up like 'whoa dude, personal boundaries!'. He jerked the gun to the side and I moved away from the wrong end of the weapon. He kept his gun pointing down the hall where I had previously stood in the way.

"There's a door at the end of the hall. There are stairs behind it that'll take you to the ground floor where you can get out to the car," he swung his chin over his shoulder, motioning for me to get a move on.

"You aren't coming?" I asked, suddenly petrified. This honestly could not end well. It never does. Dean was not back yet, and Sam and I _both _knew what that meant.

"I'll find Dean and we will get out of here. Go. Down the stairs. Be quiet and run."

"Sam. No. This kind of thing never ends on a happy note," I said, "And no offense, but it especially doesn't with you and Dean involved."

"It will if it means you are safe. Go."

I looked at him, taking a breath and hoping he did not see how afraid I was. For him. For Dean. For whoever the hell they were hunting. It was a final silent plea.

He nodded at me once, his expression fearless for the sake of me and me only. He waited until I left to follow up on Dean.

I ran down those stairs at the end of the hallway. It was meant to be a fire exit, but it didn't sound an alarm when I went through, confirming my idea of Dean and Sam having tampered with the system. I ran when my legs stung and my side heaved in on itself. I gasped and clutched it, still jogging as fast as I could go down the flights of stairs. There had to be ten in all, but it felt like I was running a marathon. A marathon in a compressor of some sorts—God it was hard to breathe and my ribcage ached stupendously.

"Damn. If this doesn't kill me, I don't know what will," I panted.

_Tell me agent Nugent, have you thought about where you might spend eternity?_

I heard the voice. It belonged to someone who knew they had the authority and the say-so, and it was low, but not in tone—I don't know how to describe it. All except I had never heard it before.

"Hello?" I turned around to look behind me, up the stairs. I stopped, gripping the rail to steady me with both hands. My breath was ragged from all the effort I had exerted to get here.

_All the damn time._

"Dean? Is that you?"

The second voice sounded like him. As if he was right here in front of me.

I clung to the railing and tipped myself over the side, peering directly through to the ground floor a few flights under. "Hello?"

I stepped back from the railing. No. I am being the stupid teenager at the beginning of the horror flick, asking if someone is in her house. Yes, someone is in your house and he isn't in the bloody kitchen preparing you a sandwich. For cripes sake.

Ugh. Keep your head in the game.

I ran the rest of the way and shoved my way past the door. I was immediately submerged into the gloomy morning atmosphere, with an insane cold gust of wind sweeping my hair about my face. I zipped up my hoodie hurriedly and my eyes swept through the poorly lit parking lot for the Impala.

When at last I spotted it—solitary and in a space next to the curb—I sprinted for it. My side automatically rejected the nonsense I was shoving it into and whined with seething threats. I dropped to my knees upon arriving to the car, grunting and twisting around to sit on the ground. I rested my head on the back tail lights. Heaving breaths from a labor unknown to my healing yet distressed body took savage hold of me. I opened my eyes, taking a deep breath again and again, my heart working so hard I could hear it in my ears. My eyes spanned the landscape around me. I knocked my head against the car, grimacing purposefully, knowing what I was doing was wrong.

This was the part where Dean and Sam subject themselves into that situation. That one where they are wedged between a cliff and a really hard place. I could _not _just sit out here while they hurt themselves in there. I had to do something. But I didn't know what I was up against. Neither did Dean or Sam, I guessed, if they hadn't reached it yet.

_They'll hate me for this, _I thought sourly.

I rolled my head, facing the lock on the trunk of the car.

Going on a tiny thread of hope and a bucket full of luck I didn't know I had, I glanced at the asphalt. Looking for what? Anything small and sharp enough.

Aha! There. I picked up the rusting paperclip in my hand and unbent its curving edges. Then I wedged that sucker into the lock. I wrestled with it for a good solid six or seven minutes maybe, cursing under my breath, but it was all worth it when I heard the satisfying click within the lock. I pushed upwards, using my shoulder as the lever 'cause frankly, my legs couldn't do it right now.

My hand dove into the trunk. I half stood, half hung on the rim of the trunk opening, using my other hand to prop open the lid. My chest hurt because of all the pressure I was putting on it. I fished out a gun. Handgun. Possibly semiautomatic. I didn't know. But it was loaded and it shot bullets and that is all that mattered.

I shoved it in the front of my pants and pulled my shirt over to conceal it and also slammed the trunk shut. I raced back to the side door on the west wing of the stabilizing unit, hiked up the torturous flights of stairs, and retraced my steps all the way back to where we first broke up.

My fingers found their hold on the gun as I took it in hand almost instinctively. My heartbeat went to top speed and suddenly it was like my ears could detect the smallest pinprick of a change in the atmosphere. The drop of a pin. The exhaled of a person in deep sleep. Or the muffled groans two hallways away.

"Sam. Dean." I sprinted towards the halls, feeling some stitches on my side itch and rip. I felt the blood ooze from the tear in my skin as I flew across the polished floors. Tears from the pain slid down my face, but I kept running. I could take it. Only one thing was on my mind.

The sounds grew louder—more to the point where the grunts sounded like only primitive animals would make. Then, talking—first the calm, in-charge notes of whoever held Dean or Sam, and then the sound of one of the brothers hissing their retorts either because they had binds on their mouths or they were in immense pain.

I hoped I knew what I was doing. My index finger of my right hand found the trigger. My hand shook. And I was scared.

Nothing I can't handle.

Finally, I came to the disgusting scene. It was out in the children's ward, smack-dab in the middle of the waiting area. Dean lay next to the blue toy box, with several colored wooden building blocks spilled out on top of him and on the floor in front of his stomach. He was unconscious and lying on his side with his arms over his head and his arms were fastened to one leg of a row of chairs that were nailed to the floor next to his head. His brow was bleeding and his gun was set too far away, on the end table on the other side of the row of chairs.

Then, there was the mano-y-mano showdown going on between Sam (currently on the ground, taking a few punches to the jaw and trying to get Dean's attention) and one of the nurse ladies. The old woman, actually. Her keys were the ones with the kittens on them. But this woman was one mentally insane cat lover—her weak looking hands scathed in blood, and her rose pink scrubs tainted with more red as she sat over Sam, repeatedly punching him with the kind of strength a boxing champion would have in his prime (not an old crone like her).

Two extra bodies lay next to the nurse's desk in the children's ward. Both were mangled and bloody, missing chunks of themselves as if they were eaten by some rabid animal. Blood coated the floor around the cadavers, and some unrecognizable organs spilled out of the first dead person's abdomen.

I hid back behind the corner a moment to see if Sam would gain the upper hand. Also, I had to muster up the courage, I was petrified.

The old lady that had shortish curly grey hair drew a tiny blade from her pocket and stuck it like a needle into Sam's arm as he struggled, pinned to the ground. He yelled out, eyes rolling and the woman removed the knife with an evil sneer. She placed the blade on her bottom lip, lathering it over her mouth as if the blood was crimson shaded lipstick. Then she licked it up with her tongue.

I gagged. Gross. _Come on Sammy._

"Dean," Sam made a noise halfway between a gasp and a choke, "Dean."

He wasn't gaining the upper hand. The woman was too strong—what the hell is she? And she sliced his arm again. This time, she lowered her head onto his arm and sucked the bodily fluid straight from the source.

Dean stirred.

In a strangely _kind_ old woman voice, the blood-drinking-nurse said, "You taste different. It's yummy." She smiled delightfully as if she just walked in on an all you can eat buffet.

That's it. "Hey!" I leapt from behind my shield of protection and stretched my arm out.

The lady turned and faced me, a new sort of hunger in her eyes. She was _no _lady. "Hello dear. My, you're bleeding," her eyes grazed my wound and I covered it with the flap of my jacket. "I'll be glad to clean that up for you."

Sam tried to get free, angry at a whole new level.

I pulled the trigger.

Grey curls flew in all directions, followed by splatters of red. A headless elderly body slouched over to the side. Dead as nails on the floor.

Sam scrambled out from under the thing, his face smeared in red. He gawked at me, "How'd you know to shoot the head?"

My eyes flicked to Dean (who was now awake and had the same shocked expression as Sam, but more to the handcuffs around his hands) and then back to Sam. I shrugged, holding the gun out to the side, "I don't know. I just did."

"Dean," Sam scooted around, facing his brother who was coming fully into consciousness now. Sam held his bleeding arm, "You didn't tell me she was such a natural."

I smiled.

Dean yanked on the hand cuffs securing his hands and they clanged against the metal chair leg. Wrenching himself away from the chairs, he pulled using all his weight. The chain broke in half and he stood, dusting off the toy blocks off of him and rubbing down his arms and wrists (which now adorned useless broken cuffs). "How'd you get the gun? Didn't Sam tell you to stay out in the car?" He sounded like he was scolding me.

"Well somebody's gotta save your ass," I replied smartly.

Dean snatched his .45 off the table, irritated by the very presence of me.

Sam climbed his way to his feet, using the chairs near him. He still held his bleeding cuts on his arm, his hand running over with red liquid like a glove.

"I will go burn the bodies. I think they were shoved into that janitor's closet down the hall. Damn ghouls, man. This was the perfect place for them to hang out—all the food they would ever need, freakin' sick bastards. You two go out to the car and get stitched up," Dean said, already moving towards the door with the label 'cleaning closet'.

Sam had his gun slack in his hand as he and I walked back to the car, relaxed and knowing we did our job adequately. Sam was walking a tiny bit slower than I was, yet again I was probably just proud of myself, and that might have contributed to my faster pace. Too much, I think now, because I was still in pain and bleeding profusely, and normally that would've been enough to influence me.

"You did good," Sam assured, once we were a good five floors away from Dean.

I beamed; my cheeks hurt from all this smiling. I had stopped the killer-monster-ghoul-thing. I killed it. I saved Sam and Dean from a very painful possible slow death.

This was so cool.

Outside, I assisted Sam in stitching himself up. He leaned against the back of the Impala, the first aid kit open on the trunk to his side. I taped a square pad of gauze over the slices in his flesh after cleaning the wounds the best I could.

"You know, I can do it myself," Sam reminded me.

I made a face and a short, assertive 'shh' noise, concentrating on my handiwork.

He smiled and laughed. It was more like a 'Hmph' through the nose—but it was full of amusement. Sam watched as I finished and put the supplies back in the box.

"Alright. Sorry, but your turn," Sam said. He took a needle and threaded some string in through the eye.

My eyes grew to the size of saucers and I looked down to my blood soaked shirt. "Aw man. That's going to stain."

Sam chortled again and I lifted my shirt to just above my last three rib bones, only going as far up on the side. A nasty gouge had reopened over my ribs, trails of the surgeon's surgical string stuck in the blood and the wound itself; only about a quarter of the wound had remained sewn shut. Sam knelt on the ground and pulled the old thread from the flaps of my separated skin. That didn't hurt much, just tickled a little; tugged here and there.

Next I endured about ten minutes of excruciating pain. I had to bite my tongue and look away from Sam as he stitched humpty dumpty back together again. I could feel the needle sliding in and out and the tug of the thread. Oh my God, it hurt. I was conscious. There was a sharp pointy thing going into my skin and I could feel it. No anesthesia.

"Sorry," Sam winced every few punctures. He was sorry he had to do this but he knew what he was doing fortunately, so I was glad.

I breathed heavily through my teeth, keeping my eyes shut and my shirt lifted only so high. It seemed like forever that I was standing there, just enduring. But finally, Sam tied the wound shut and placed the needle and spool of thread back into the first aid kit. He shut the lid.

I opened my eyes and touched the newly replaced thread on my wound. "Dude I look like a real life Frankenstein. Cool," I laughed my pain off.

Dean approached us soon after, his eyes awash in deep thoughts unbeknownst to the rest of him. As he passed me, I held out the gun I used to shoot the head off the ghoul. He plucked it from my hand without looking at me. With his sudden rash movement, I jumped back, feeling kind of hurt at his obvious air of warped disappointment and ill temper.

Dean lifted the trunk lid without having to unlock it and looked at me over his shoulder, hovering over the gadgets in the trunk. "So what'd you use?"

"A paperclip I found on the ground."

Dean shut the trunk after placing the guns in side and pivoted to face Sam. "Looks like we have a real MacGyver with us Sammy," he stated with distasteful dry humor.

"Look, if I didn't get the gun, you would probably be beaten 'till you couldn't move and then eaten! I know you and Sam are capable on your own, but I couldn't sit idly by while that happened to you."

_"Just get in the car," _Dean held open the passenger door to the Impala.

I climbed in. Out of sheer spite, Dean slammed the door closed behind me, even though Sam still had to get in. He and Sam exchanged a few muffled words outside the vehicle and I silently buckled myself.

Sam and Dean got in the car. The engine started.

"Next stop, Tillamook, Oregon," Dean announced as if it was the best this to happen all day. It probably was.

I closed my eyes; an overwhelming tidal wave of exhaustion settling over me.


	10. Chapter 9

Chapter Nine:

_Prayer is a sign of faith…_

I was jerked awake.

Sam withdrew his hand from my knee. "You talk in your sleep, you know that?" he said, "We've stopped for gas. You want anything?"

"Something to wake me up," I suggested sleepily, trying laboriously to keep my eyes peeled. "What was I talking about?" I jumped out of the car after Sam.

"Mornin' Evie. Oh and something about pink flowery band aids, veggie tofu burgers, and a minivan," Dean greeted me from where he stood next to the pump. Every trace of our previous argument(s) were gone from the contours of his face. A bright smile spread from ear to ear—it looked painful.

"Well yeah. My dream was weird. I heard conversations and sounds of stuff going on, but I didn't see anything. Like I was in a dark room and everyone was talking around me or something." I shrugged it off and then followed Sam into the small, dumpy old gas station.

Once inside, the foul odor of gasoline, flatulence, and stale food punched me in the face. "Ugh. It smells like crap in here."

Sam chuckled, hovering over the coffee machine at the back of the store. From behind the counter, the clerk with serious lamb chop sideburns watched Sam and I as if we were going to steal something.

Sam was taller than all the shelves around him. Even the clear refrigerator doors were miniaturized against his height and he didn't even need to stand next to them for me to pick up on how much of a sasquatch he really was. He stood with a sloppy gait, possibly from weariness, but his shoulders dipped inconspicuously inward towards his hands over the counter. That was not from any sort of tiredness. That was his body's physical representation of his in-depth thinking. The gears must've been turning a while in that brain of his too, because his eyebrows drew together as if more concentration was needed to fill a few coffee cups.

"Yeah," he pressed a button on the coffee brewing machine that looked like it belonged in the 1920s, "That's the smell of life on the road."

"Well life on the road stinks," I hung on the counter beside him while he fixed three different cups of coffee.

He agreed with a slight tilt of his head and a tiny twitch in the crook of his mouth, "You said it." It was his attempt to cover up his pensive expression. He passed me a cup and I took it. Then Sam paid the store clerk for a bunch of snickers bars and the three coffees and we exited outside.

"You know," I stopped short, hooking Dean and Sam's attention (while Sam handed Dean his candy bars and cup of joe), "You two were in my dream, yelling at each other over…flies? And Castiel too, but he wasn't yelling. He was talking about prophets… or something along those lines."

Sam and Dean exchanged a look.

"Man," Dean only mildly suppressed a laugh, "You do have weird dreams. Veggie tofu burgers? That stuff's kooky." He made a face.

"I think you ate one in my dream," I said. Then I quickly added, "But I don't know, I couldn't see anything. All I got were the sounds."

"Are you sure you heard me and Sam?"

"Yeah." I observed Dean's facial expression before saying, "So I can't be a fallen angel like Anna was."

He raised an eyebrow and blinked at me like 'well that answers that question'…or he forgot just how much I knew about them and their life.

The gasoline nozzle clumped against itself. Dean removed it from the Impala and placed it on its perch in the pump. He swiped his credit card (I was surprised this dump of a place even took credit cards) and we routinely sorted ourselves back into the Impala.

Thus began the longest fifteen consecutive hours of my life in that car.

With Dean.

And his collection of classic rock cassette tapes.

And his hideous tone-deaf singing.

Good Lord, I am amazed that I didn't need any sort of sort of hearing aids afterward. But I have to say, I enjoyed the ride. We sang along to so many songs, and those we didn't know, Sam and I just mumbled along while Dean took the role as the lead singer. Sam sang to me, twisted in his seat (I knew it was because he was trying to keep my mind off of where this road would ultimately lead us) and Dean too, sitting forward in his seat to look at me using the review mirror (possibly because he couldn't contain his joy in getting rid of me). Despite the growing knot of fear straining in my stomach, I sang back just as horribly and had as much fun as Sam and Dean appeared to have. Goofy smiles everywhere. Laughing and playing around.

I had almost forgotten where we were heading.

Almost.

After all that singing, sporadic dancing, brief stops on the road, and long occasions where a weary isolating silence overtook us, eventually 10 p.m. rolled around and Dean cruised off ramp into the nearest town.

Third motel in the book: A rundown piece of crap called "The Silver Fox Motel".

"What kind of name is that?" I asked as we carried our bags into the room we would stay in for the night.

"The 'Silver Fox' was a nickname given to the famous NASCAR driver David Pearson," Sam answered, his eyes flicking over the train wreck collaboration of atrocities that was this room.

"You watch NASCAR?" Dean studied his baby brother with an aloft eyebrow.

"If it's the only channel that isn't full of static," Sam replied.

I set a bag on the black and white checkered sofa and slumped down into its cushions. You'd expect me to sink into cushiony delight like it was a cloud (or at least an oversized cotton ball), but no. This couch actually hurt to sit in. The springs jabbed my butt and I found myself situating awkwardly to find a position that hurt less.

The beds matched the sofa in pattern and color, but the walls had newspaper clippings of NASCAR winners over gaudy rose-red wallpaper with cartoonish racecars having a pretend race across the top borders of the walls.

"This place is freaky," I stated, staring at the car-shaped lamp on the end table between the two beds.

Dean saw it too and pressed the round button on the hood of the car where the number on the real deal would typically be. The headlights switched on and he automatically pressed the button again. "This will probably be the only time I say it but Hoodie over here is right."

He was serious about that, but then a smirk laid claim to the lower half of his face, "You fit right in," he told me. It made me question the possibility that he actually thought out that that entire reply or if he really did not have to try at being a dill weed.

We made faces at each other when he crossed over to the bathroom. From inside the closed door, Dean yelled, "Dude the soap's shaped like little tires!"

Sam and I shared a look and after a flush of the toilet, Dean came out from the NASCAR themed bathroom.

Sammy really tried hiding his smile (he blatantly failed) when he said, "What was that about fitting in?"

I laughed, "Are you sure you want to spend the night here? I thought you normally drove on through the night."

"Don't look at me," Dean countered, "Sam's the one who wanted to stop, because believe me, no one wants to get to Oregon faster than I do."

"Yeah," I turned away, moving again to ease the pressure the metal springs put on my butt.

"I'm going to get a Coke," Sam announced, "After I hunt down the vending machines."

"By the office," I said, "On the south side of the building." I rested my head on the checkered cushion next to me and crossed my arms as I lifted my feet to the opposite end of the uncomfortable piece of furniture.

Sam's thanks went like this, "Eve, you can take my bed. I'll sleep on the couch."

"I'm fine Sammy. Go get your soda," I mumbled, my eyelids shutting, feeling as if lead was taped on them.

The door opened and it closed.

I fell asleep almost instantly.

* * *

A blanket was ripped off me, followed by a rush of air sweeping over me like the brush of eyelashes across my skin. My father suddenly loomed there, his tie ill-anchored and tossed over his shoulder, his uniformly oiled dark hair messed up in the front as if he ruffled it in frustration, and his eyes—they were full of anger, fuel alit with flames. Glorious flames.

Tears fled my eyes and found deposit on my mattress below me. Without warning, my cheek stung with the pain my father's backhand had brought upon it. I screamed, my hand going to the sight of distress.

Without notice, I was sloppily shoved to the ground. Yet, with enough force, it felt a lot quicker. My shoulder took the brunt of the impact on the hard flooring of my bedroom.

My father climbed over me.

Bam. Bam. Bam!

I couldn't move. I couldn't fight. The misery. I could feel the swelling, the blood, filling my mouth and flowing over my teeth and tongue. The bitter stomach clenching taste.

_Stop it! _I cried out.

_Evie! Evie! _The new voice reverberated through the room, my only good eye darted around my bedroom. My father punched me again but it was like he was being lifted from me and I could no longer feel that iron fist.

_Stop it!_

Hands were on my shoulders when I woke up. I started, my breathing shaky and sectioned. My eyes met green ones—concerned green ones.

"Dean." It was more of the breath I took. Judging by the look on his face and his hands on either of my shoulders, I had to be shaken from my nightmare.

Sam sat upright in his bed, looking energized and ready to punch someone's face in under his tangle of bed sheets. He stared at me with the same perturbed expression as Dean.

"Are you okay?" Dean's voice reached me, but didn't sink. "Evie," he gently pushed forward with his palms and then removed his hands from my shoulders.

"N-no," I answered, "I need to get some air." I got up from the couch and left the room.

The night air nipped at everything from my nose down to my heels. The door creaked behind me and clicked secure. I wrapped my gray faded jacket around me, but didn't bother zipping it up.

I glanced up at the Impala (it was sleek and mysterious in the dimmed streetlight glow) before turning to walk along the sidewalk, hugging the side of the motel building. A few minutes later, I found a nice oak tree where the entrance of the motel met the isolated road in this weary isolated ghost town. It looked peaceful and lonely and inviting with its arching, jagged limbs rocking in the breeze—a perfect place to sit a minute to think.

So much for that, because that's when the voices started up again. They were louder this time, but damaged and shredded as if over an antique radio. I listened—I had no say in the matter—but the terrible static chopped the voices like freakin' tomatoes.

I closed my eyes, listening attentively like a four-year-old during story time. I listened 'till my ears rang—I grabbed at my ears, the ringing heightening and intensifying, paining me however hard I tried to block it out. My body writhed in the dirt and I screamed on a hunch before it got any worse, "Tone it down Cas!"

All at once, it stopped. Silence.

I lifted myself from the dirt and grunted, "Hi Cas."

"Hello Evangeline Masters." He stood next to me, dutifully examining the tree canopy above us and then scanning the motel just the same.

"Ew, Cas. Eve is just fine," I stood, rubbing my head. "Now what are you doing here?"

His eyes traveled the skyline, nice and slow, "Taking a stroll. Same as you."

I squinted my eyes suspiciously at him, "No really."

He shifted his intense gaze to me. "Really."

I crossed my arms, quirking an eyebrow at him. "You never appear unless it is important. I would know because—"

"I know," he cut me off. Very serious and without expression—typical Castiel-angel prominence and prestige. Except his eyes. His eyes were deliberately aloof; devoted in his thinking.

For a moment, and only this, they seemed to drown in sorrow. The saddest blue I have ever seen within the eyes of any angel or non (you know, besides Castiel being the _only _angel I've seen in—uh, face-to-face). But then, it was gone.

"Cas."

He blinked and faced me.

"If you '_know' _like you say you do, then what am I doing here? How are Sam and Dean an-and you real? It's just a show! You and all this," I motioned around us, waving my arms, "aren't real."

"Yet, you believe it is," he stated simply.

I dropped my arms, suddenly becoming aware that maybe this angel in a trench coat was right. "Well maybe I do. But," I exhaled, "it just can't be. Can it?"

I pivoted on my toes, spinning in a circle. "Cas? Cas! You jerk! You always do that!" I put my head in my hands, accepting Castiel's departure. And the fact that my questions may never be answered. I stood like that for a while.

"Hey," I started at his voice and tucked some of my auburn strands behind my ear, "You okay?" Sam's warm body is suddenly behind me. A second shadow joined mine on the tar-colored asphalt. However it was much, much taller.

"Yeah. Hey, um, Sam?" I turned slightly, my arms crossed again.

"Yeah?"

"Do you know anyone named Jimmy?" I asked, "I know it's a weird question. Just answer it." I ran over his unprepared expression with my words.

"No…? I have never heard of a Jimmy," he answered. "Does Jimmy have a last name?"

I turned away from him, hiding the confliction on my face. "Proabably. I don't know."

"Eve, what is it?"

"I'm hearing more voices. All the time now. At first I thought it was coming from places other than well, me, but now I'm sure they're just in my head. It's weird and very much scaring me because I hear you, and Dean, and Cas as well. Even people I have never heard before. I just don't know what to make of it."

"When did you first start hearing these voices?"

"At the hospital. Earlier today and again just now. I heard someone mentioning or…something about a Jimmy and then Castiel. Well, it sounded a lot like Cas, but it wasn't him. Then I heard a high screaming sound—"

Without premonitory warning, voices filled my head like water to a bathtub. But it was as if the owners of these voices were directly in front of me.

"What is it?" Sam stepped forward, a hand out.

"You and Dean are talking again now—I can't. I can't make out what you're talking about," I hassled to place their exact words. The harder I tried the more staticy it became. It was undeniably frustrating.

"We having a party out here?" Dean joked, walking up behind his brother, "You realize it's really rude not to invite me, right? I mean, I'm already a walking fiesta but—" Dean's cocky grin vanished when Sam gave him his signature 'not now' face (known to fans of the show as the 'bitchface', if I remember correctly).

"She's hearing voices again. She says she hears us talking right now."

"Well of course we're talking," Dean exclaimed, "We're doing it right now."

"No, Dean." He shook his head.

Dean faced me. "What are we saying now?"

My eyes closed tightly, my brows furrowing in my strive to pinpoint their exact words. "Something about coke?"

"Oh so we're drug addicts now? Real crackheads," Dean shook his head and placed a hand on his hip, disbelieving, "Classy."

"Oh shut up Dean and stop being annoying," I halted, not even looking at the brothers, "Anyway, I can't hear them. They are gone now."

"Well that is just peachy. Since we are all awake and enjoying the morning air like a happy bundle of buddies sentimenting over a fire, can we get on the road now? I'd hate to ruin this moment," Dean said, looking like he didn't care at all. Like he would love to ruin this 'moment'.

Sam glanced at me, "Yeah. Better leave now anyway, before we hit morning traffic."

"We take the back roads just like always, Sammy. I don't have the time for traffic," Dean remarked, trudging back to the room to grab the bags and pack them into the car. He left Sam and I standing next to the tree.

"You look like you have something else on your mind."

I shook my head, "Of course not. I have a lot of things on my mind. Like how am I gonna say goodbye to you two losers later today." It was only my cover-up. My mirage. I knew things now. I just did not tell him or either of them. I couldn't. It scared even me.

He smiled, looking to his feet and his hair coming over his eyes. "You won't have to."

I answered quietly, passing him to walk back to the Impala, " I will and you know it." I turned around, my hands in my pockets as I walked slowly backwards. I shrugged, "It's okay Sammy. I will be fine." I turned around again and finished helping Dean load up the car.

I did not believe my own words. But someone had to say it to him. He's felt enough of…of everything as it is. He and Dean both. I just didn't want to worry him. He did not deserve it. He had enough to feel and enough to do as it is.

Lileth was on the move still. They didn't have time for little 'ole Evangeline Masters.


	11. Chapter 10

Chapter Ten:

Time incessantly teased me. With every hour spent driving, the road beneath the Impala zipped under us like a conveyor belt gone haywire. It was like it was running off its track. Soon though, I recognized exactly where we were by our surroundings. The church on the edge of Tillamook had a brilliantly colored crucifix imbedded in the stained glass window and the playground with the three yellow slides down the street were both constant attractions in this town.

I laid my head against the cool glass, watching as a group of teenagers from my graduating class entered the local Rock N' Roll diner. I watched as my town flew by as if I was in a dream.

Even though the words remained unspoken, I knew Dean relied on me for the directions to my father's house. If we hurried, Sam and Dean would never cross paths with him.

It was only four o'clock. I had time.

"Turn here," I said quietly.

Dean turned the steering wheel and we found ourselves on the entering the street on which I resided.

"White house on the left. Black gates," I said even softer.

The Impala slowed and the perfect white-paned image of my house entered the frame of my window. The first thing I noticed was the absence of my dad's black '70 mustang—the one he used when he planned on being out all night. Second, I noticed just how ginormous and hallow that house really was. Everything from the two smoke stacks on the opposite sides of the roof, to the ill-positioned and clashing curtains in all the windows, they were all reminders of what I was returning to. Emptiness behind a perfect mask.

Dean exhaled sharply, "You didn't tell me you live in the house of Bel-Air Evie."

"Nice cars," Sam complimented.

We pulled up to the black metal gates. They looked as ominous as ever.

"33529," I said.

Dean rolled down his window and he tucked his head out of the window to reach to the keypad. He punched in the numbers and the black gates screeched inward, granting us passage.

It kinda reminded me of that one scene in the Haunted Mansion and I sort of found refuge in that. At least that story had a happy ending.

We cruised forward, following the curving driveway and then we halted beside the front door. Dean and Sam had to lean their heads back to encompass the enormity of this residence.

"You want to come in?" I asked, hanging on to my last golden thread of hope as if my life depended on it. "The old man won't be back until early morning."

"Sur—"

Dean smacked Sam's chest and Sam choked down that last syllable. "No, we really need to get going."

"Are you sure?" my voice was gaining in octaves, in a teasing sort of way, but I was shaking like a leaf on the inside. I didn't want to say goodbye. Not now. Not yet. I couldn't let them see how much I was afraid of them leaving. "My dad has plenty of beers in the fridge. You can even raid the mini bar if you want."

Sam took one glance at Dean.

Dean twitched, thinking about it; looking as if it was a laborious process. His hand flew to the ignition. The next moment came and gone, and the Impala was silent.

Dean looked at me a moment and I smiled. I knew I won _and_ _he_ knew it too, which is why he was so bothered.

"Come on," I said. The three of us went up to my door.

I pressed in the 5-digit code on the lock of the white-washed front door, each button stating deposit with a high-pitched beep. Sam and Dean practically hovered over me as I did so. They then spanned out when we entered the foyer.

"Wow. Someone call MTV. Nice place," Dean peeked into the rooms on either side of us, snooped around in the hall closets, and examined the artwork on the walls.

"Yeah, if you like this sort of thing," I said, watching him go about his lackadaisical inspection.

He did not mind making noise as he went, either. Slammed door sounds echoed through the house and Dean's awed and impressed whistles took sharp turns around corners. I guess when you're off the job, being noisy is something hunters are good at.

Sam however, followed me across the first floor to the kitchen, bypassing Dean going up the gorgeous bulky hand-crafted flight of stairs (he was craning his neck to look up to the chandelier hanging from the high ceiling about 30 feet above his head). I grabbed a beer from the fridge and tossed it to Sam. Then I poured myself some water in a plastic cup.

"Where are all the pictures?"

"Hm?" I asked, gulping down a few sips of my cup.

"Of your family. All I see on the walls and on that table over there," he tipped the bottle over motioning to the end table in the living room, "is God awful ugly artwork."

"My Dad destroyed everything that reminds him of my Mom. And me," I said, placing the now empty cup gently in the sink.

"Eve?"

"Yeah." I avoided his concentrated gaze on me.

Silence buffered the room for a few moments and I found myself gradually leveling my gaze with his. I could tell by the way my vision blurred, my eyes were glassing over and I blinked away the tears—hard.

Sam's hazy figure moved towards me, in comfort, but I put a hand out and stepped back. "No. I'm fine."

I swiped the moisture away with a flustered hand. I was mad at myself for letting him see me tremble like this. "Hey," I said, trying to sound cheery, "What's your jerk of a brother up to?" I ran out of the kitchen and up the stairs.

"Dean!" I called out.

"Yeah," the reply came a moment after, sounding quite preoccupied and hollow. And from the placement of his voice, Dean was in my room.

I approached the slightly ajar door and pressed inward with my fingertips. My dad must've replaced it while I was gone.

Dean sat on my floor, a knee up and an arm hooked around it with a bottle of hard-hitting vodka to his lips. He stared ahead, looking through the walls as if they were not solid objects.

"I see you found his stash…Dean?"

I knew that look anywhere.

Then suddenly, I saw it.

The bathroom door was left wide open and the light was blinding, even during the daytime. The industrial styled light bulbs shed bright synthetic light on the destroyed wreck inside the bathroom. Apprehensively, I stepped forward.

My first aid kit lay sprawled around inside the open cabinets under the simple white sink. Towels were thrown everywhere, weird splotches of some sorts smudged across the fabric. Wooden shards were piled in the black plastic trash bags on the tiled floor, a metal door handle placed nicely on top, as if it were a bow on top of a Christmas present. The larger pieces unable of fitting in the trash bags were set leaning against the wall next to the tub. Five bleach white rags were in my sink, stained red with dried blood.

I shut off the light, not saying a word, and closed the bathroom door.

I felt utterly ashamed. Of me, of what he had to see, of my scars.

"How long has he been doing this to you?" Dean asked, semi-forcefully.

Sam stepped in the room, unaware of what he was getting himself into. He appeared confused, then horrified, and then like he expected this—his expressions flicking to the next in a matter of milliseconds.

"Dean," I stated. I hoped I would not have to finish.

"How long has he been beating you?" Dean yelled at me, his face going dark as he stood quickly to his feet. His expression was guilty, bubbling angry, regretful, protective, and dirt serious all wrapped into one.

In person, he was scary like this. A silver tear trailed down my face.

His shoulders relaxed and the alcohol bottle lowered in his hand. His green eyes searched mine, not knowing what to do, but his countenance remained the same.

"Ten years," I said, "Ten years in two months today. My birthday."

Sam shifted—I saw in the corner of my eye. I didn't tell him that bit of information.

"Pack your bags, Evie," Dean said, his face suddenly somber but no less protective and serious. His eyes remained like hot coals in a burning furnace.

I looked up quietly, not sure if I heard him correctly. He stared back, not back-pedaling his words.

"Dean." Sam interjected.

"What? Sam! I was wrong okay, I'm sorry!" he turned to me, his voice immediately softer, "I'm sorry."

I let a noise of happiness escape me. He did care—I don't know how much, but it was enough, the way he looked at me then.

"Dean," Sam's voice was louder and demanding in tone.

Dean looked at his younger brother, no doubt wondering why he was pestering him so. I didn't hear the silent words exchanged between facial expressions, but in the next minute they were out the door, flying down the steps. Quiet.

They were leaving. Why?

I was so conflicted. I didn't understand.

Until I peered out of my window. My dad was returning home; his shiny black cat of a mustang was gliding up the driveway. My father parked his precious gem and sauntered through the front door.

I sprinted down the two flights of steep stairs, careful of my healing side. My footsteps thudded hard on the polished wood. I skidded to a halt on the ground floor, my hair whipping around from the sudden change in motion. I came face-to-face with my father, who had just entered the foyer.

It was then I realized two things simultaneously.

One: Sam and Dean were gone.

Two: My dad was going to kill me. My real dad this time.

My father shut the door, searching me over with a haughty superior gaze and placed his briefcase on the floor beside him. He unbuttoned his gray stripped suit jacket, nice and slow as if he had nothing better to do.

I knew what was coming. And he was sober, which meant his imagination was roaring with the ideas he would have never had while sucked into a drunken stupor.

"Where've you been Evangeline Mariah?" he legitimately sounded like a father disciplining his child. Even brought out my middle name and everything.

Fists formed themselves at my sides. I was alone in this, I knew that now. But this time—this time I would fight back like I've never fought before.

But wait, wouldn't he have noticed the Impala? Whether it was still parked conspicuously in front of the house like a black spot on a Dalmatian, or as it drove away? The driveway was pretty long—how did Dean and Sam get away without being seen?

My father stepped forward, "You have a lot of answering to do sweetheart."

I hoped that word tasted sour on his tongue.

"Luckily, you brought me a present to make up for it—"

The Impala.

"—so your punishment won't be as…bad." He continued to advance on me.

I stood my ground. My breathing speeding up and getting heavier.

He was close enough to swing now. I blocked him when his arm came towards my face, but then I relaxed. He was not going to punch me. His hand pushed up my chin, so that my eyes gazed into his. His thumb and pointer finger squeezed together, squishing my face between them.

"Did you steal it?"

"No," I answered between my teeth.

"Liar!" he flung me away. It didn't hurt. What came next did, however.

All I saw before hitting the cold rock-hard ground was his fist coming straight at me. Stunned, I lay there a minute, feeling the blood rush from my nose and spill over my lips.

He stepped over me and yanked me by the flaps of my hoodie. He shook me back and forth, my head coming dangerously close to the floor many a time.

The doorbell rang.

My dad looked momentarily confused and then completely horrified. He dropped me and whispered, standing over me still. "You keep quiet or it will get worse."

I pursed my lips, gulping.

He went to answer the door. My father straightened and tightened his tie around his neck, taking effort to make himself look presentable. He opened the door enough to be seen himself yet closed enough to conceal me lying on the floor.

"Can I help you?" my Dad's voice turned business-y and free of any signs of aggression.

"Good afternoon, sir. We are with the—"

Dean! "Dean," I cried out, half-yelling and half-whimpering.

My father snapped his head at me and glared.

_Bam!_

My father's unconscious body was propelled across the expanse of the foyer and hit a corner of a wall so hard, it rattled the tacky metal decorations on the wall.

Sam charged in through the door and flew to my side. He helped me sit up. "Eve, I am so sorry. I don't know what we were thinking."

I smiled meekly, "You weren't."

Dean shoved the door closed as he came in. He stepped over to my father's body and heaved him up on his feet by his collar and slammed him against the wall. "Wake up!"

My dad's head rolled and he blinked awake. "Who the hell are you? What are you doing in my house?"

"I think I should be the one asking questions," Dean remarked, getting really pissed. He motioned to me, where I sat wiping blood from my face. "Did you do that to her?" he shoved my dad against the wall again (my father winced), "Did you do that to her!"

My dad side glanced me. His voice was laced with fear when he ordered, "Evangeline, call the cops."

"She isn't calling anybody," Dean said, drawing a knife from his back pocket. It was the demon killer, but it served its purpose either way it was used.

"Dean," I said calmly.

Dean looked at me, resituating his feet and the knife at my father's throat. He saw me and said, "An eye for an eye Evie! You can't possibly want this man to live after what he did to you!"

Sam looked at me, our faces coming within inches of each other. His eyes searched mine, "You can't be serious."

I stood, my legs wobbly. Sam steadied me, standing strong next to me. I stepped towards my father and Dean, my stare never wavering from my dad's.

"As much as I wish all the pain he inflicted on me unto him, he is my father—"

"Evie—"

"—and I can't change that. I am leaving, Father. I am going to leave now and never come back. Dean will tie you up, I will grab my things, and I will leave. You can go on and pretend I never existed, that I never was. I don't care. In exchange for your silence and cooperation, they will not kill you. Does this contract sound acceptable?"

For the first time ever, my father was the one afraid. Afraid of dying. Afraid of me. Fear wriggled freely, hungrily in his eyes identical to mine.

And for the first time ever, I wasn't scared of him. He was a coward. At last, the tables had turned. I was the big bad boot hovering over the cockroach.

"Evangeline…please…"

I turned away, "Oh and I am taking the family savings," I walked back to Sam. I twisted once more to face my pleading, pathetic father. I felt Sam's hand land on my shoulder. Support.

"You can tie him up now," I said to Dean.

"You can't do this!" My father yelled, struggling against Dean, enraged, "Let me go!" He stopped writhing a minute in front of Sam and I, "You don't even know the codes."

I raised my eyebrows, "Try me."

He stared and then struggled again. Dean removed the blade from his neck, flipped it in his grip, and bashed it against the back of my father's skull. My dad automatically dropped to the ground. Out like a light.

"Take anything you guys want. He won't be doing anything about it," I said, not even sorry for my father at my feet.

"Let's go get your stuff," Sam offered.

"Okay," we walked up the stairs.

Dean dragged my father's body into the kitchen. The sounds of his black shoes skidding across the linoleum reverberated through the house.

A few minutes later, I had every last piece of clothing I owned in a gray duffel bag that I had nicked from my dad's room. The strap hung over my left shoulder and the bulk of the bag settled against my back. Sam and I walked into my father's office.

"There are five safes total," I said, removing a picture frame with painted flowers on it from the wall. By doing so, I uncovered the first safe in this house. It was a smaller one, but it held the bulk of the cash.

I pressed my ear to the black metal, my hand on the turns dial. "I'm taking it all," I told him. Then I switched my 'decoding mode' on. "Hopefully he didn't change the codes. Not that it would matter—I can decipher it."

I twisted the dial. 3-36-32-5. _Click._

I looked at the safe, pleased and a bit surprised. "Huh. He didn't change them yet. Here Sam, take this." I flipped open the safe door and grabbed the stacks of $100s piled expertly within the containment box.

Sam moved next to me, his eyes processing the amounts of cash in front of him. I thrust wads into his hands.

"You look like you do this often," Sam remarked as I piled the green currency into his arms. I started shoveling them into his pockets as well.

As I worked, I explained, "My dad never gave me the money—or the things—I needed to get along. So I had to learn, to teach myself these things. I found this safe when I was nine and then the others shortly after. So I took on the skills of thievery and code-decoding to get by. I just did what I had to."

"That sounds familiar," Sam smiled, almost sadly.

I smiled too. After cleaning that safe out, I beckoned Sam over to my father's master bedroom down the hall. He lumbered in after me, almost accidently dropping a bundle of $100s.

I padded across the carpet to throw the corners of the blanket covers backwards across the rest of the bedspread. I bent over and grabbed the handle underneath the bed and tugged. The box rolled out from under its hiding place. This safe looked like any miniaturized filing cabinet—my father's endeavor to camouflage it. I removed the labeling box from the front of the safe to reveal the keypad underneath. I pressed in 1-2-5-7-1-6-3-3-8 and opened it.

"He really put a lot of effort into hiding his money."

"Yeah, he got kinda creative," I said.

"That Scrooge. He really never gave any of this to you?"

"Nope," I made a popping sound with my lips. I cleaned that safe out and then proceeded to the last three and did them the same favor. When I was done, my duffel bag had quintupled in weight because of all the money I shoved into it (including all the money Sam had carried). Sam and I met Dean on the way back downstairs.

"Ready?" Dean's eyes rested on me, "Dang Evie, you pack the whole house in there?"

"No," I shook my head, "Just all the money."

"All of it?" he looked at Sam.

Sam replied, "All of it."

"Awesome. Let's get on the road."

Then I noticed where my dad was tied up. He sat, bloody-nosed (and he didn't do that all by himself…), hunched over with each of his arms hooked around the legs of the dining room table. His arms were bound using bungee cords Dean must've found in one of the garages.

My father gazed at me. Watching me silently—unable to talk because of the rag stuffed into his mouth.

"Hold on," I touched Dean's arm subconsciously before stepping before my father. "I have a question for you, Father," I started, not bothering to lower myself to his level. "All I want is a 'yes' or 'no' got it?"

It was a moment before I continued, feeling Dean and Sam's eyes on my back. "Was there ever a moment in which you loved me? Even if only for a second?"

That question surprised even me. I had so much more on my mind, like why he killed my mother and why he hadn't done away with me before now. But when the moment came, this is what surfaced—in place of everything. Why?

I stared. Waiting.

My father stared back, intently.

I stood straighter, having received my answer. "Goodbye Dad. You won't be seeing me again."

And with that, Sam, Dean, and I left that sad house.

I was never to return.

****Please review, and thanks for all the follows! (: ****


	12. Chapter 11

Chapter Eleven:

"Hey Dean?" I lay across the backseat, using the duffel bag as a pillow.

"Yeah?" He turned to look at me a second before going back to concentrate on the road. We'd been driving almost 16 hours and the signs of nighttime were fast approaching.

A question had been nagging at my mind since we left Oregon. "Did you give my dad any way of escaping his ties?"

He looked at me again. "You're worried about that asshole?"

Dean and Sam shared a look.

Sam turned in his seat, looking over the headrest at me, "Eve, he tried to kill you. He beat you. Of course he is your father and I understand that—"

"Well screw that Sam. That's no excuse. Why would you even want that son of a bitch to live?" Dean cut in, "I had him, Evie. I had him at the edge of a knife like he deserved and _you worry if he's okay?"_

"I didn't say that."

"Oh, you implied it," his eyebrows rose and fell as he replied.

"I don't know why," I shifted away, facing the back of my seat. I honestly didn't.

"Yeah? Me either."

A few minutes later, I asked, "Where are we going anyway?"

"Bobby's."

"You know who he is, right?" Sam asked, just making sure.

"Yes. He is the idjit guy who is practically your father now," I answered, "He doesn't take any of ya'lls shit either."

Sam laughed. "Yeah, that's Bobby. There, we will hangout a while while I look for a new job."

"What am I going to do when we get there?"

"Well I was thinkin' I could show you how to protect yourself better," Dean offered. "Hunting is serious business—there's a lot more than shooting the head off of kitten-loving ghouls."

"Yeah." _I know._

* * *

_Now you wait and we call on you when it's time._ Cas's voice.

Clanging metal.

Exchanging of words.

Voices.

Urgency.

Importance.

"Hey, Eve." My shoulder shook, "Time to get up. You can sleep inside," Sam said.

I yawned.

We climbed out of the vehicle and all slugged wearily up to Bobby's front door. Dean knocked three times. Then again, thrice more with the butt of his palm, growing impatient.

"Stop bangin' on the damn door!" Bobby's gruff voice came from inside. A second later it opened.

"Don't you two idjits know the meaning of beauty sleep?" he asked, scratching his beard tiredly.

"Looks like you could use a lot of it," Dean joked.

Bobby rolled his eyes. "Think you're funny, boy?" Then he saw me, sort of hiding behind Sam and Dean. "Who's that?"

Dean and Sam moved so I could be seen fully.

"This is the new addition to our hunting duo," Sam smiled at me encouragingly, "I guess that makes it a trio now."

I half-waved at Bobby, smiling. "I'm Eve."

"Anyway, sorry Bobby for the short notice but we needed a place to crash so Sam could look for a new job," Dean said.

Bobby pulled open the rest of the door. He would never say 'no' to his boys. "Couldn't you two just find the next beat up motel like any normal person?" he remarked as the three of us entered his house.

We went into the study. I tried bypassing all the books piled everywhere and all the other miscellaneous objects strewn about, but every little detail yanked my attentions. The red wallpaper, the lace curtains hanging in every window, and the vacant fireplace. Everything was wonderful. I felt safe here, I decided as I sat on the couch.

Honestly, I felt right at home. All the clutter made it seem so inviting, contrasting steeply to my father's empty museum of a house.

Bobby joined us in the living room and sat in the armchair next to the one where Sam sat. Dean and I chose the couch across from the both of them.

"What did you say your name was again?" Bobby asked me.

"Eve. Nice to finally meet you in person," I said. I'll admit, a fraction of my inner fangirl surfaced.

Bobby nodded, still groggy. He looked half startled in that split second. "How long you known these two?" he glanced up to Sam and Dean.

I thought a moment. "A very long time. About as long as I've known you."

Dean looked at me and then to a speechless, suspicious Bobby. "It's a long story."

_I know why you really drink that blood Sam._

I looked to Dean. He was talking with Bobby, with Sam occasionally jumping in, but those were not his words. His lips didn't match up, yet it _was_ his voice.

_Just leave me alone. _Sam's voice.

My eyes flicked to Sam. He was not talking. Both voices were crystal clear and spoken as if I were right in front of them.

_Makes you feel strong,_ Dean continued, _Invincible. A big bad wolf in a world of little pigs…_

A gasp. It sounded like someone was struggling—it was Sam. _You're wrong Dean._

_ It's more than that isn't it? _Dean sounded like he was circling around a room. He also seemed…different. He sounded like the Dean I knew only came out when he needed to knock someone off their pedestal, or when someone needed a rude awakening. But this time it was different.

_It's because your whole life you've felt different, am I right? _Dean sounded like he was aiming to hurt Sammy. But why? He would never do that to him.

_Stop._

_ I hit a little close to home, huh? _Dean! What is going on?! Why are you acting this way?

I wished I could see what was happening. Then again, I wish I didn't. This is all so nerve-wracking and confusing. Why was this happening to me?

It suddenly went static like over a radio when a demon is nearby and Dean's words were chopped up.

_-You were some lonely kid or because your weirdo family—_

_ Stop it. _Sam really tried. He was holding it together by threads.

_-or because you're a monster._

_ Shut up! _Sam lost control. _Just—shut the hell up. _He gasped.

_Always. A monster._

I wanted to scream. I wished to God that this wasn't real.

_And you always feel right when you're suckin' down more poison. And more evil!_

Sam breathed through his nose, on the brink of tears. He was trying so hard not to believe what his older brother was telling him, but Dean was being an asshole. That just could not be Dean! I refuse to believe it is—he would never do that to Sam.

Not a moment later, Dean said, _I would die for him in a second._ I had no doubts as to who he was talking about, but Dean's whole voice, whole tone, did a complete 360. He was austere in his way of speaking and calmer, and maybe a little bit fearful. _I won't let him do this to himself. _A lot fearful.

He just sounded plain out like the normal protective, big-brother-Dean now. This sudden change puzzled me. First: Why? Second: Who was he talking to and where was Sam?

_I can't._ Dean exhaled. He was afraid.

And then I realized. The demon blood was killing Sam.

There was an immediate wave of static.

_Monster, Sam. You're a monster!_

_ Dean. No. _Sam. He was begging. This was breaking my heart.

Static.

_…You're nothing to me._

Dean! I wanted to scream! I wanted to cry out and make the voices stop. They weren't real! Why did I keep hearing things that weren't real!?

_Don't say that to me, _Sam was crying, his breaths haggard, _Don't you say that to me._

"You okay girl?" Bobby's voice suddenly snatches me back to the present. They're all looking at me. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

"M-me?" I stuttered, pressing an uneasy hand to my sternum and rubbing slightly. I laughed. "Not yet. I'm just tired is all."

"There are beds upstairs. Just pick one. Go on, you look exhausted." He tipped his hatless head to the stairs.

"Thanks Bobby."

"And…kid?"

I stopped, my hand on the rail. "Yeah?" I faced him.

"How much exactly do you know about me?"

That is what they must have been talking about when I heard the voices. "Enough," I answered, "Not as much as Dean and Sam, but enough."

He nodded once slowly, not really completing the nod, and I went upstairs to go to bed.

Before I thought I knew things, but now…now I wish I didn't.

"Oh, Sam," I murmured to myself, crawling under some covers in a room on the second floor. "What have you done?"

* * *

The next morning I awoke from a disturbing dream. The only reason I knew that was because of the sweat on my brow and the hair strings clinging to my neck and the ardent breaths that seemed to pump from my straining heart. I did not remember the dream. But I remembered the fear.

I sat upright in my bed, blinking against the sunlight that was peeking through the drapes on the window, running across the floor and stabbing in the eyes. I wiped the perspiration away with my jacket sleeve, noticing my duffel bag on the ground.

I flung my covers off of myself and groped blindly through my bag, shoving the ungodly amounts of money out of my way. When I felt cloth, I snatched it from inside.

After seeking out a bathroom and getting ready for the day, I made my way downstairs and wandered around the house, wondering if everyone was awake. I walked into the study; the most likely place of gatherings in this household. Books were forming mountains everywhere, and other random objects (like salt rounds) were slung everywhere there was a flat surface. The desk was in front of the fireless fireplace, and the devil's trap painted on the ceiling still remained there with the many sigils within and on it, etched in some sort of black ink.

It still awed me that this was not a TV set somewhere.

"There she is," Sam greeted me, walking into the room. He sat in the desk, carrying a leather bound book with him and set it beside his laptop in front of him. He reclined in the desk chair, his right hand on the mouse to the computer and taped his eyes to the screen.

"Morning. Find a job yet?"

"Nah, not yet. I'm still working on it. You sleep okay?"

"Yeah. You seem overly cheery today," I commented, observing him.

He had a big smile glued to his face, his green plaid shirt seemed excessively green, his hair was wavy and combed, and his eyes were sparkling and he appeared to be spiked with an energy high.

"I can't be in a good mood?"

"Not when I feel like crap," I answered smartly.

He smiled again.

"Where's Dean?"

Sam pointed to the ceiling. "Still hibernating." Then he took a sip from the coffee mug that I failed to notice on the desk before.

I relaxed a little bit. He was just energized from the caffeine. He didn't drink any demon blood this morning. I was being ridiculous and I was overreacting. The voices weren't real.

"And Bobby?" I inquired, moving closer to the desk.

"Present," Bobby walked into the study, holding a beer in his hand. He had his grungy blue cap on this time and wore a plaid shirt as well, though it was paired with a gray stained t-shirt underneath.

"Isn't it a little early for alcohol?" I asked.

Bobby replied, "It's five o'clock somewhere girl."

"It's 'Eve'," I told him. Then I made my way back upstairs, "I'm going to get Dean up."

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," Bobby advised with his deep, fully-awakened voice.

I ignored him. Coming to the top of the stairs, the doors that were left widely ajar I eliminated as choices. The door closest to me on the left was the only door still closed. I tried it.

The door exhaled as I turned the knob and pushed, a tiny creak screeching through the room like cat claws down a chalkboard. I winced.

"Do it Sammy, I'll end you," Dean grumbled groggily, half his face smooshed into the pillow. He lay on his stomach, half uncovered (and seemingly naked without his pants) with a leg exposed, and his arms underneath the pillow, sandwiching it between his arms and his big head.

"I'm not Sam," I said, opening the door more and stepping into the room.

Dean lifted himself from the bed and looked at me with heavy eyes, his charm swinging around his neck and hitting his black t-shirt repeatedly. "Oh," he exhaled tiredly. He face planted his pillow. From within the pillow, his muffled words reached me, "I'll end you too."

"I have no doubts," I said, leaning my back against the wall across from him.

I waited a minute, watching. He lay still as a stone. I'm not even sure he was breathing.

"Dean."

"Hnnnghuhgh," his reply sounded like some sort of primitive noise that maybe the cavemen would use to communicate with their fellow neanderthals.

"Get up."

"Get out."

"No."

"You're annoying."

"So."

A few minutes passed without an uttering sound from either of us.

Finally, Dean exhaled a long drawn out sigh, his shoulders moving with it. "You aren't going to leave until I get up, are you?"

"Nope," I replied in a matter-of-factly manner.

In a flurry of flying covers, Dean yanked off his blankets, superfluously balled them up and threw them to the corner of his bed. Then he glared at me, rubbing his cheeks, chin, and mouth in one trailing movement. He bent over and retrieved the pair of jeans bundled up on the floor and slipped them on. He stuffed his keys in his pocket and brushed past me on his way downstairs.

I followed like a duckling to its mother (its mother with really bad bedhead). We walked to the kitchen, Dean automatically to the fridge and I to sit on the countertop next to it.

"You have breakfast?" he asked, his arm moving around the insides of the fridge.

I shook my head.

"Eat breakfast," he directed, pulling a half-eaten wrapped sandwich from the refrigerator. After unwrapping it from its tinfoil and looking it over (bypassing the prominent marks from bites already taken out of it), he took a hefty bite from of it.

He chewed slowly, his cheeks bulging, a piece of bread dangling from his mouth. Dean glanced up at me and his face twisted to exhibit his 'what?' expression. "What?"

My nose ironed out from being scrunched together upon my seeing Dean just being Dean. "You're weird. Let me have some," I extended my arm out, expecting to have a sandwich land in my palm.

Dean moved the half-sandwich away from me, protectively. He sucked the lingering piece of bread into his mouth and finished chewing. "Finders keepers Evie. House rules." He took another bit too big for his mouth and said, "There's cereal up there." He pointed with his elbow to the cabinet behind him.

I rolled my eyes. "And you say _I'm _annoying," I said more to myself.

Dean walked out of the kitchen to join Bobby and Sam in the study. "It's because you are," Dean shouted back.

I got a cereal box down and poured myself a bowl. It didn't look out of the ordinary but when I dipped my hand into the box and lifted a handful of cheerios to my mouth to taste it, I was hit with a foul stale smell right in the nostrils. I emptied the cheerios back into the box and poured the bowl into the trashcan. Cereal wasn't supposed to smell like that. Even stale cereal.

I suddenly lost my appetite. I went back into the study room where Dean stood over Sam, his eyes reading over what was on screen. Sam was diligently reading the page as well, and Bobby was cleaning one of his prized shotguns off to the side in an armchair.

Dean's eyes flicked up to me, his jaw still moving and chewing. He swallowed, "You eat?"

"The cheerios are stale."

He rolled his eyes, "Annoying a_nd _picky."

"Can we go practice now?" I asked, overrunning _his _being annoying.

"Yeah," Dean balled up the trash in his hands and tossed it into Sam's lap.

Sam looked grossed out by his brother thinking he was a rubbish bin.

Dean smirked, "We will be out in the yard," he announced, going to the door with me following behind.

Outside, Dean opened the trunk of the Impala and took out a handful of different sized and shaped knives (some resembling something closer to swords). He shut the trunk and walked to the center of a small clearing amidst all the junked cars rusting under the heat of the midmorning sun.

"Aren't we gonna practice shooting?" I asked worriedly.

"Later there, Eastwood. I need to know what else you're good at before we get back to the guns."

I shifted my weight, pocketing my hands, "Should I be concerned that you just complimented me? I don't know if I should. I'm feeling very conflicted."

"Well Very Conflicted, take this." He handed me a knife. It was a smaller one, compared to the rest, but it was twice as long as my hand so it was not s_mall._

"What am I supposed to do with it?" I asked, staring at the blade in my hand. I flipped it over a few times. It shone with a gleam of reflected sunlight, like a spark running down the silver.

Dean opened his arms, making himself the target.

"Uh, no thanks Dean. I think I'll pass."

Dean tipped his head, "You shot the head off an old lady and you are afraid of cutting me?"

"That's not the same thing!" I replied hotly, "She was a ghoul."

Dean countered, his voice level, "And she's the least of your problems. If you are comin' with us, you've got a lot to learn and a short time to do it, Evie."

He was right of course. It made me angry.

"Speakin' of," he continued, "We need to get you some antipossession ink."

"A tattoo? Nuh uh," I said, jutting out my arm.

Dean sidestepped the blade swiftly, caught my arm and forced it to release the knife, all in the same swimming motion. "Uh huh," he argued and picked up the knife, placing it in my hand, "Hold it like this. Never like you are holding a sword. Backhand it like you're there to slit some suckers up, got it?"

I nodded, doing as he showed me out in the open air with an invisible opposition. In the next moment, I pivoted and one, two, three, swung at Dean.

He jumped back successfully, nearly missing the blade's sharp teeth each time. He looked at me, surprised and horrified and then down to his shirt, searching himself for cuts, and then back to me. "Well don't hold back on my account. I'm fine."

"You told me to go for it, so I did."

"I motioned for you to. Those words never came from my mouth. Again."

I dove at him. He smacked my elbow and the knife flew from my grip as he curved around me in a circle, and kicked the inside of my knee. I fell to the ground, the same knee taking deposit into the hard-packed dirt.

"Ow. Take it easy, will you?" I complained, "If you ever get a new tagalong after me, be nicer to them."

"What do you mean 'after you'? Oh," he stopped circling me and helped me to my feet, "You mean 'the show'. We've gone through this—this is real Evie. And there is no 'after you'. You aren't going anywhere."

_You aren't going anywhere. _The words wrote themselves in my brain.

"Now. Drop the knife."

I did. Dean swung at me and I dipped, seeing his arm slide over me—I saw it play out, like some weird slow motion bit in a movie. My heart sped up. Close one.

He swung again, his closed fist flying, and I blocked it with my arm. Again and again and again. Falling, getting back up, my muscles not appreciating all the tripping, hitting, knuckle-crushing things I put it through, round and round the yard. Through junked cars, past the white metal shed with more cars packed inside it, and to the high wooden gates with barbed wire at the edge of the yard and all the way back again. You thought Olympians had to work hard? That's cookie cutting jobs there, rookie.

Sometimes Dean would have a flash of surprise cross his face; sometimes he was impressed. Most others he looked like he was folded into concentration—trying to train me adequately and at the same time, not hurt me as much as I knew he could.

Eventually, my knees buckled and I crumpled to the ground. I lay on my back, taking heaving breaths, afraid my lung could not take on this new labor. I was tired. "No more!" screamed every limb, joint, and muscle my body contained. Hot, sticky sweat coated me like a film.

Dean appeared over me, the sun directly behind him, casting a shadow over me. His shirt was drenched in his own sweat and I could see droplets of perspiration on his forehead as well. "Great. If you do that, you'll be dead in less than a minute."

"Unless they want to kill me slowly and eat me."

In a fleeting moment and one last seized burst of strength, I swung my leg and it swept under Dean. Dean hit the ground hard, and grunted, rolling on his back. It surprised even me—I thought it wouldn't be that easy.

I stood up, panting. "If you do that, you'll be dead in less than a minute," I said, grinning over a squinting Dean on the ground. My tone lost humor, "No tattoos."

Then, I walked back into the house for a well-deserved rest.


	13. Chapter 12

Chapter Twelve:

After a day of nonstop training, insufficient short breaks, and a PB&J thrown somewhere in there, Dean sent me to bed early. He said I should get as much sleep as I possibly could because we'd be getting an early start tomorrow. Plus, he hinted on revenge for my waking him up this morning.

My stitches itched, and my muscles moaned and ached in places I didn't even know I had. My arms and shoulders especially. They ached even _in _my bones—is that even anatomically possible? Must be anyway because I was sore all over. So naturally, I did not argue when Dean told me to go to bed.

When my head hit the pillow, it was instantly when I found sleep.

* * *

"How was training?" Sam asked. There was no need to be loud; Eve had already slugged upstairs.

The house was quiet as a graveyard and just as eerie with Bobby absent and off on his own job with some hunter buddies of his. He would be back in a few days.

Sam sat at the desk, appearing just as tired as Dean. He also looked as if he had not moved from that chair all day. But the two empty coffee mugs and the three solitary beer bottles proved that assumption to be false.

Dean was lying across the sofa, his right arm draped over his closed eyes and his left arm hanging off the couch. That hand limply clutched an opened beer bottle crying tiny perspiration droplets around his hand.

"Dean?"

"Huh? Oh. Yeah, she's a fast learner, that kid." Dean shifted and took a sip from his beer. He tried to rest his eyes again.

"That's good." Sam waited a minute. The mouse clicked twice. "…Is that all?"

"Dude, I'm tired. Why don't you call it quits Sammy? You look like crap," he stated quietly, wearily.

"Yeah," Sam clicked again and the window on the screen closed. Sam shut the laptop and the chair creaked as he leaned back in it. He sighed, "You look like some kids mistook you for a piñata. Are those bruises from Eve?"

Dean was suddenly fully awake as he moved his arm to look at the long brownish marks floating underneath his skin. They stretched in splotches from just above his elbow and traveled towards his wrists.

A flicker of bewilderment panned his face and then switched to his regular 'I expected it' facial expression. He went back to trying to sleep, his leg sliding off the couch and hitting the floor with a careless thump. Dean was too drained to place it back on the sofa, yet he moved his bruised arm back over the span of his eyes. "Yeah. She doesn't hold back once you give her permission. She's like a tiny Jet Li with a knife," Dean admitted.

Sam smiled, "That good, huh?" Even though Dean was tired and trying to brush off Sam like he normally does when he felt he didn't have the time or the patience, he could tell Dean was legitimately impressed with Evangeline.

"The bruise on my butt if proof. It's awesome." Dean's tone was thick with sarcasm, but a note of honesty rung high with it.

Another moment of quiet.

"So, you really care for her." It was really a statement, the way Sam said it.

Dean got up from the couch, ignoring his baby brother. "I'm going to bed." And he did.

* * *

_Pat ta Pat Pat tata Pat!_

I rolled over, tugging my pillow over my head, trying to block out the rambunctiously loud noise.

_Pat tata Pat Pat Pat Pat! _The noise got louder and closer and more annoying. Suddenly, my pillow was on the floor next to my bed.

"Wakey wakey Evie," Dean said. I saw a pot and a wooden spoon in his hands.

"Only you," I grumbled, scowling at him and feeling more tired now than when I went to bed the previous night.

He smirked wryly.

"I don't want to get up today. My muscles hurt. I feel like laying here all day and dying," I said, attempting to look as miserable as possible.

"Well too bad. Dying's not on the agenda for today," Dean flung my covers off me (the bed entirely) and I balled up to make up for the automatic loss of warmth. "If you work the muscles that hurt, they won't hurt," he said.

"That would require me to work everything—even my butt. How do you work a butt?"

"By making her get out of bed and train," Dean said simply. "Now get out of bed Sunshine," and then the humor fell from his voice, "or I'll push you out of it."

My eyes sharpened. I knew he would. "You're annoying," I got out of bed.

"I will be outside. Ten minutes." Dean left.

I fell back on the bed and sighed. It was going to be a long day.

* * *

After getting dressed in my purple t-shirt, skinny jeans, my regular gray hoodie, and my bright red converse, I skipped down the steps happily. I was anxiously waiting to get the day going. And after a slow aching start, my joints did not creak or sting disputes any longer when I moved—so I moved around as much and as excessively as I could. Which also entailed skipping down the hall to the kitchen and jumping in place as I sorted through the fridge. Finding nothing of interest to my stomach, I then shut the door disappointingly.

I spotted the donut box off to the side. It was sitting alone and terribly vulnerable on the table. I attacked it with hands fueled by hunger and stuffed one in my face, satisfied when the sweet diabetes-inducing pastry hit my tongue.

"Is there a kangaroo in here?" Sammy entered the kitchen, his plaid shirt casually unbuttoned, joined with a plain t-shirt underneath. The bottoms of his jeans slid on the flooring below his shoes.

"Mnuh?" my mouth was full of donut.

He laughed, seeing the ridiculous sight that was me—bouncing and stretching, face full of donut, and shimmying around like some sort of weirdo on crack.

"What are you doing there energizer bunny?"

"Dean said if I move around my muscles won't hurt," I shoved the remaining bit of my donut in my mouth and started doing some pinwheel motions with my arms, "He was right. Don't tell him I said that."

Sam poured himself another mug of coffee, his facial expression his promise. "Yeah—uh. Look Eve, I'm sorry." His whole figure changed with his tone. It was suddenly serious, brimmed with guilt.

"For what Sam? You didn't do anything."

"I told Dean about your father. I said he beat you and things I shouldn't have without your permission. I had no right saying those things and I'm sorry."

I stopped bouncing around, becoming still as the cloud of realization came over me. "It's okay Sam. I've already forgiven you."

Somehow, deep down, I knew it would happen anyway. Sam was always a caring and passionate person and I really only needed someone to share my story with, so I was not thinking of that at the time.

He looked like he hadn't expected my forgiving him so easily. Like I threw him a curve ball. "Really?"

"Yeah," I said, "I know you were only trying to help."

"Do you miss it? Home? Friends? School?"

"What friends? What home? It was never my home and I'm invisible. The only reason I loved school was because I was away from my dad."

"You didn't have any plans after graduation? College?"

"Oh," I grasped the words I never knew I would admit to myself, or anyone, ever. "Sammy," I exhaled, "I never expected to make it that far."

"Make i-?" Sam's face automatically morphed like molding play-doh. His eyebrows rose from their confused knot and his cheeks tensed. "We can study if you want. Whatever you want. I could homeschool you, since we move around a lot, but we could get textbooks, pencils, an-and paper—"

I tackled Sam with my vicious ravenous hug of equal joy and borderline love and appreciation. "That'd be great Sam. But no. The only thing I know I want to do now is help people like you and Dean."

Sam hugged me back. I literally _felt _him accept my decision. "It's a hard life. Always on the road, lumpy motel beds, and crappy diner food that's bound to make us die from a stroke if no ghost or demon does it first."

"You both always describe your life using those descriptions," I said, letting go of him, "And Sam, it is a lot better than what I had. People like me would grab this chance in a heartbeat. I am just lucky that you and Dean came—or I came when I did. It's still confusing and weird, but I'm glad it happened. Please don't beat yourself up over me." _I'm not worth it._ My gaze paired with my words was enough to subdue his apologies.

The look on his face told me he would continue to feel the way he did about all this for a while, but he would keep it at that. I knew that look in his eyes anywhere.

"I gotta go train now. Dean is probably bored out of his skull and needs me to order around."

"Yeah." Sam exhaled as I walked away.

Strolling into the yard, the door slammed shut behind me. I yelled, "'K Dean. I'm here." I stopped, looking around.

The clearing we trained in the day before was deserted, the junked cars sat rusting and deteriorating where they were left and scrap metal was strewn in unorganized clumps about the yard. Everything from exhaust pipes to whole doors and broken steering wheels could be seen—except for Dean. It was odd because the Impala was parked in its normal spot, gleaming like an inky beetle with a shine on its wing under the heat of the sun.

"Dean?" I turned, my eyes scouring more heaps of discarded metal and cars that looked like they hadn't worked in decades. Then, finding nothing, I made my way through the mazes of cars. Some were piled on top of one another, looking like some motorized sumo wrestling match broke out and others were not even whole cars—split right in half with their interiors pillaged and missing.

"Dean! This isn't cool man!"

_Cold!_

"Mlahh!" the noise of surprise escaped me when I felt the cool wetness of water soaking through my clothes to kiss the skin on my back. I wiggled uncomfortingly and pivoted on my toes, the dirt scuffing my shoes.

"Dean?" I checked the mound of cars in front of me. A sort of power switch turned on in me and I was automatically wary, heightening my senses as I rounded the bumper of a car squished underneath two more just like it. There was no one there.

_Cold!_ On the back of my neck! I turned sharply, holding a hand to the nape of my neck. I ran to the car across from me and popped over the edge of it. "HA!"

Nope. No one there. Seriously, what the heck?

Then I felt the three short squirts of water on my backside, almost in the same spot as the first time I was shot with a stream of H2O. I turned around one last time, really ticked and bothered.

I saw it coming before I even saw him. I shut my eyes, my whole face scrunching together when a blast of water hit me square in the face. I wiped the water off with my sleeve.

Dean laughed, lowering a bright yellow, orange, and red water gun to his side. He stood jacketless with a hand on his hip, one bowleg in front of the other, proud and haughty where he leaned against the dented door of an old Chevy. "You're really making this too easy, Evie. Sticking out like a chicken in a church isn't a bright idea."

"Alright," I took off my jacket and draped it over a piece of a car near me. "Where's my gun? Time to return the favor," I said stubbornly. Dean was going to get it.

"Can't return any 'favors' when you're pushing up daisies."

"You shot me with water."

"Would you rather me use the real deal?"

No. "Wasn't I the one to suggest we use water guns in the first place? When'd you even get it?"

Dean looked over the bulky toy gun in his hand, as if thinking, "I nicked it off some kid's porch."

"You stole some kid's water gun?" I exclaimed.

Dean looked back at me, his eyebrows doing the sort of tango that they did when he sarcastically replies. "Yeah, right after I bought it at the impersonation-Wal-Mart down the street. No I didn't steal it," he withdrew a second identical water gun from the passenger seat of the car behind him, "Geez, you'd think I'd have more of a conscience than that," he added.

I took the gun when he handed it to me. I scanned it over a moment before casually pointing it at Dean's face. I pulled the trigger, smiling as the water found its target, "You don't. It's kinda part of your job."

"Oh yeah?" Dean smacked as the water dripped of his chin. "You better run and hide, if you know what's good for ya, because my conscience just went south of the border." He pumped his gun.

"Ten second head start," I demanded, fleeing.

"Alright alright. Don't ever say I didn't do anything for you," he turned around, facing Bobby's house as I scrambled for a place to find shelter.

"One…two…ten."

I dove behind a car. _Lucky me,_ I thought. He only filled my gun halfway. I pumped the gun slowly, hoping it wouldn't be obnoxious and give my position away.

"Sometimes," Dean started, his voice amplifying over the yard, "the stuff we hunt gives away their position. Learn to use the noises they make to your advantaged." Dean's voice traveled nearer.

I lifted with my legs and gazed over the hood of a car. Dean was strolling behind a pile of other cars, his finger already on the trigger. He appeared equally as intimidating and as ridiculous with that water gun in hand.

I sat back down and crawled to the next car over. "Stop booty boot camping me Dean," I shouted, throwing my voice, "We both know _everything_ sneaks up on you."

In the silence I received as my only reply, I could feel Dean smile. I crawled to the next car as quietly as I could manage and pulled myself up to see over the roof of a three-wheeled SUV. My eyes washed over the yard twice; no Dean. I squatted, quickly deciding I should move.

And I did. I ran hunched over, across half the yard and dove behind yet another automobile. I took a breath. He was not going to make this easy.

I looked around, hoping to search out my best chances for a hiding spot. Bingo. A car at the top of a heap of rubble. It was maybe ten or fifteen feet off the ground and it was perfect in every way. I could see down from every angle up there.

I ran for it, holding my gun close to me to stifle the sloshing of water inside. Once there, I began climbing. I got a foothold, a handhold, and heaved myself up with one hand. Then I checked the scene around me. Still pretty much Deanless.

It freaked me out. This was the part where he would be waiting at the top of the mountain for me, sitting like some king in a throne before shooting me with his water gun.

With great effort I made my way to the top of the artificial hill. I had to be quick and agile with my movement because of the faulty enclaves of the rubble—too long in one spot, metal would clamber and fall and I was a goner in all ways possible. On top of the effort it took to keep the sensitive pile of unsteady metal from a fiasco, I had to shift my weight quickly to balance the gun in my arm (and keep it silent as well), all the while trying to keep out of sight.

It was a laborious process, but I made it. I opened the car door, careful of the creak, and slid myself in. Once in the backseat, I heaved a relieved breath.

"Ow," I muttered. Then I sat up and inspected the land below me. "Look out world, I'm the fuckin' queen," I said to myself, focusing on the grouping of cars on the ground, rusting to nothing.

"Watch your mouth."

In a whip, I had shot Dean all over his face and chest area.

"Hah!" I shouted my victory.

Dean listed dangerously to the side and then wobbled to the back, his face morphing, trying to keep balance as much as the rest of him.

Worry struck me like a bolt and I extended my hand out of the broken window, but I was too late. Dean lost his one-handed grip and fell, tumbling backwards.

"Dean!" I heard flash and bone collide with dirt. I flew to the window and saw him lying on the ground; the water gun a few feet away from him, broken and leaking.

"Dean!" I shouted again, already on my climb down.

I could hear him grunting and grumbling. Over my shoulder, I saw his leg slide over dirt and gravel.

In my haste, my foot missed a secure foothold and I too, slipped. The water gun fell from my grasp and I hit the ground so hard my breath was knocked from my lungs. I lay a minute, paralyzed and grunting.

All at once I forgot of the pain and crawled over to Dean. "Dean," I shook his shoulder.

He shut his eyes even tighter, wincing. "What do you want?"

Seeing he was okay, I managed to say, "Is it a bad time to say 'I win'?" I grinned like a madman.

He opened his right eye, looking at me. He opened his other eye, whilst sitting up. He seemed annoyed that I got the better of him; I mean the scowl said everything.

I was soaking it up like a sponge.

"Did you fall down?"

I sat up, "No. I teleported."

He moaned while jumping to his feet and helped me up. We ached all over and barely made it without falling over to the Impala. Dean leaned against the driver's door, holding his shoulder, and I shlumped over the hood of the car.

"Well that was fun," I said.

"Yeah," he agreed sarcastically with a hint of a laugh, "You did good there short stack."

"Thanks," I sat up. For a minute I just watched Dean tend to himself, checking for bruises and scrapes.

"What?" he said.

"We're having a moment aren't we? Even got the Impala," I tapped the black metal with my hand, "right here and everything."

Dean stood up, "Well it's gone now." He went inside the house, leaving me kind of hurt.

After a while, I went back inside, only for Sam and Dean to walk right past me to the door.

"Where are you going?" I asked.

"I found a job," Sam answered, handing me my duffel bag.

I took it, slinging the strap over my shoulder and I followed them out the door. "Where?"

"El Dorado, Arkansas," Sam replied as we all flung our stuff into the trunk.

Dean slammed it shut and we all climbed into the Impala.

"Kind of ironic, don't y' think?" I said, "The name."

"Yeah," Dean said, "Especially since we're dealing with hellhounds." He tried to look unintimidated and indifferent at the situation. But I could see the true fear in his eyes.


	14. Chapter 13

Chapter Thirteen:

_…You went full on Vader…your eyes were black…_

_ You're upset?_

_ Yeah, a little._

Dean didn't want to go with whoever was talking to him.

_…And I'm just supposed to trust you? Cram it with walnuts ugly._

Dean was not budging. Was that a good thing?

_It's like whoever put me on that plane cleaned me right up,_ Sam said. Cleaned? As in purified?

My face went pale and my spine was struck with the chills when I heard the next person speak. It was a woman. _It's you Nick. You're special. You're chosen._

I clutched my head, rubbing my temples, whispering, "Shut up, shut up, shut up," again and again under Dean's hard rock music playing over the speakers.

Sam was sleeping despite the volume of the music, and Dean was head banging away to the beat of _Hells Bells_ by AC/DC.

He was uncharacteristically cheery for someone about to face one of his greatest fears. I knew it was just a cover up. I knew he was terrified. It was all a ruse, for me and for Sam, and possibly in efforts to fool himself.

For a moment when I realized this, I forgot the voices and the noises invading my head, and I smiled at Dean. It was a morose smile and I wished more than anything I could tell him everything would be okay in time. The voices in my head were proof that there would be a few…a lot more bumps in the road.

Eventually, I found sleep, too. When I came 'round, I knew we'd made it, by the looks of where we were. Possibly crossing through the heart of El Dorado, we passed two statues of some men in baggy clothing with a green waterwheel behind them. We also passed this retro style theatre, complete with the giant overly-flashy light bulbs around the title and the venue boards lining the sidewalks. There was a bright red telephone booth on the corner of every street, like what you'd see in that one Harry Potter movie.

"Nice town," I rubbed my eyes awake and sat up in the seat.

"Hm?" Dean turned to look at me, "Oh yeah, a real 'best friends with my neighbor', postcard type of place."

Sam was watching out his window and by the way he replied, I knew he'd been awake for a while. "Yeah, it's disgusting. All these happy people enjoying their simple lives in a nice town. It's terrible." He sure jumped on the sarcastic train pretty fast.

Dean rocked his head from side to side, as if to help himself get over Sam's snide remark. It didn't last long.

I heard him shoot back with his own personal signature of squalid dickness. And then I heard Sam reply, starting with a 'Look Dean' and then going on into why people have a right to be happy…but the noise from their bickering melded together into this single droning sound as I caught glimpse of a figure I knew couldn't mean anything good for me.

He stood there on the side of the street, still as a pole in a baggy tan trench coat. His hair was messy and uncombed, and it went willingly with the wind that now swept through town. His trench coat flapped in the breeze as well, but he paid it no mind—his eyes were intensely fixated on the black Impala. On me.

Regular people passed the angel by as if were not standing there, on the curb, calmly watching me pass. I realized I was the only one who could see him when I waved at him through the window and Dean and Sam failed to recognize Castiel only a few feet away from them. When we passed by, I strained in my seat to look at Castiel through the back window. He was gone. Vanished.

I sat back down, displeased, and a tad bit confused. Somewhere in my ears I heard Dean asking me about why I looked out the window so urgently.

I told him, "Oh, nothing. I thought I saw someone familiar."

They didn't question it.

About ten minutes later, we pulled up to a dingy motel on the perimeters of the town. It was a collection of three white buildings in a horseshoe shaped layout. Well, they _would _be white if they'd been pressure washed recently. Long, dark, oily stains leaked down the sides of the motel buildings, under light fixtures, from the bottom corners of windows, and onto the sidewalk where the weird substance continued to stain the concrete.

I took one look at it and was automatically D-O-N-E. All caps. Spelt out. Done.

"Ew. Guys, stop it with all this—this 'third motel in the book and check in under 'Bates'' thing. I saw a Hampton back that way," I threw a hand over my shoulder.

"What? You don't like this?" Dean asked me, "This is home Evie, whether you like it or not. You signed up for this the moment you tagged along."

Sam still looked grossed out at the fact that this was the third motel in the book; his upper lip touched the bottom of his nose in his 'ew' face.

"I know. But that doesn't mean we don't have to splurge every now and again. Come on, you guys need to have a little fun." Once that last sentence was out of my mouth, I made it my personal mission to make sure they had fun one way or another. They deserved to be happy, even if only for a little while.

"I'll pay for it. Come on Dean. My money is our money. Let's go," I insisted further.

Sam tore his eyes from the hideous green overhangs above the windows of the motel, "Anything's better than this."

Dean glanced at Sam, seriously not getting the picture. "What is so bad with this place?"

"This is the kind of place you'd find dead things inside," I commented.

Sam nodded. "Bad things," he added.

"Like moldy unscrubbed toilet seats."

"And old lady teeth in your pillow."

"And spiders in the cracks in the walls."

"And don't forget that year-old sandwich you'll never find but you'll smell the whole time you're there and you know it's a sandwich because the whole room reeks of salami and mustard."

"Ew. That's the worst of them all. I was just being—did that actually happen to you?" I asked.

Sam's eyes flicked to me. "It's a long story."

I slowly nodded, "Uh huhh…"

Dean stared at us as if he did not know how to react.

I quickly added, knowing Dean was on the brink of breaking, "And some old lady's severed finger lodged in the free bar of soap they give you at these types of places."

Dean threw his hand in the air, "Okay!" He slapped the black steering wheel with that hand, "We'll go, but only because you two are being annoying. And freaky."

The engine whirred and Dean backed out of the parking space.

I grinned and Sam gave me a high-five. He was smiling, too. We knew we won.

A few minutes later we were at the Hampton Inn I saw earlier. Just to spite me, Dean checked in under 'Bates' after I ordered him to get the most expensive room on the list. It really didn't faze me and he honestly didn't care either—we all didn't. We just wanted to get to room 204. The suite with two rooms, a kitchen, living room, Jacuzzi tub, two queen beds, and one king bed, were all waiting for us.

With our duffel bags, we ascended in the metal elevator to the third floor and proceeded down the length of hallway. The carpets were tacky, but not '70s tacky', just 'ok priced hotel tacky'. The doors to each of the rooms were ordinarily boring, along with the plain lamps hanging on the walls.

At the door, Sam slid the key card in the door and we all piled into the room.

Dean gave out a multitude of impressed facial expressions upon entering the living room. These expressions persisted through the kitchen, bathroom, and both bedrooms. "Sure picked a nice place," he said, targeting me as his recipient.

"Yeah," I said, amazed at the grandeur around me. "It's the nicest I've ever been to." I say 'grandeur' as a loose term. Most people might have seen much, much better, but we all know as well as I that my life hasn't really been all tea and cupcakes lately.

I don't know. Maybe, Dean, Sam, _and_ I needed this. Just something different. Something better; new. To make us temporarily forget how undeniably crappy out lives are. To make us temporarily happy (or the closest thing we could get to it). Am I being too unrealistic here?

"Yeah?" Dean said from one of the bedrooms, "Me too."

Sam smiled, running to me from the bathroom. "Go check out the bathroom. No severed ladies' fingers in the soap and everything." He genuinely seemed…happy. Content? What is the term for in between the two?

I grinned, brushing past him to do my own rounds of exploring. There's not much to say really, besides the prominent fact that it was like any other hotel room—simple, modern, contains all the necessities. But if I said it like that, like I was used to it, I would be lying. It was truly a theme park for us motel-bound folk (and me, who's not really accustomed to anything normal like souped-up hotel rooms).

I screamed, "The hand towels are shaped like frogs!"

Dean came into the bathroom with me and picked up one of the towel frogs by the sink. "Dude, that's some awesome origami stuff. How can they do that with a towel?"

I made the 'I don't know' noise in my throat, shrugging, and exited the bathroom. "I call dibs on the king mattress!"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, there princess." Dean's attentions were snagged immediately. He set the frog on the edge of the sink and followed me into the living room. "The king should get the king-sized mattress. Not the royal jester."

I looked at Sam, who now stood next to his brother. "Do you want the king?"

He shrugged, shaking his head. "No. You can take it."

My head snapped back to Dean. "Rock, paper, scissors for it?"

"Oh hoh hoh hoh. You're on." Dean stretched out his arms, flexing, and readying himself for the ultimate battle.

This was going to be a piece of cake.

"Sam, call it," Dean said, never straying from my gaze, a concentrated yet goofy and sloppy looking smile stuck to his face.

Sam stepped between us like a referee at a basketball game about to call the ball. He sliced his arm vertically in the air between me and Dean.

One. Two. Three.

Dean: Scissors (duh).

Me: Rock.

Dean let out a noise of pain and grabbed his head, reeling away from me.

I started dancing, rubbing in my victory. "Still with the scissors! Who's king now buddy?" I laughed.

Sam smiled, enjoying Dean's defeat.

I toted my bag into the room with the king-sized mattress. "So what are we doing first? Dressing up as FBI? Interrogating people? Research?"

"Actually," Sam said from the living room, "Just Dean and I are going in on this one."

"What?" I dropped the bag on the white covers of the ginormous pillowy bed. I stepped back into the room, meeting Sam's eyes from where he sat straight-backed on the brick-looking couch.

Sam and Dean exchanged a look. Then Dean carried his duffel bag into the room next to mine and threw his bag on one of the identical queen beds.

"FBI agents are not fifteen, Eve. I'm sorry. I wish you could come. We will only be a while. Two hours tops." Sam clasped his hands together.

"Can't I just lie about my age? Come on, I want some cool phony badges like you guys."

Dean came back in, holding the separate pieces to a suit. "You'll just have to stick it out here a while, while Sam and I check out this place. When we've got all the information that we need, you can help us ice the suckers all you want. Got it?" He seemed more and more like a drill sergeant as he went along.

"Promise?" l looked to both Dean and Sam respectively.

"Promise" Sam said.

Dean sealed his oath with a nod and an upturn in the corner of his mouth.

* * *

It was the halfway mark in Sam's promise—one hour had lapsed and they still were not back yet.

Out of frustrating boredom, I ripped a thin piece of paper off of the included 'thought pad' on one of the end tables in my room by the bed. With the also included ink pen, I scribbled down a few lines:

_Hey guys, _

_ Out for some air. I'll be back soon._

_ P.S. Since I didn't get a key card, my code is to knock five times and say "Hot dog, pizza's ready." It's weird, just like you Dean. So nobody will expect it._

Then I stuffed a few $20s in my jeans' pocket and grabbed the 'do not disturb' door knob hanger from the coffee table. I emerged from the hotel room, sighing loudly from the pain caused by my boredom, and slipped the sign label over the handle of the door. Afterwards, I took my leave.

The hotel itself was positioned a few blocks away from a strip mall to one side and a jumble of ill-positioned sit-in restaurants a few blocks away on the other side. Immediately, I found myself walking down to the strip mall. For no particular reason, just something to do while Dean and Sam were out doing the fun stuff.

Since it was only about three in the afternoon, the lot of the mall was packed with cars of all types. People were hungrily shopping at the strip mall, gazing in through the windows, some sipping on to-go drinks, some biting off more than they could chew in relations to how many bags they were carrying, and most looking very much like that one relative in your family who thinks they're better than all of those around them.

I sighed again. I guess I'll just have to pass the time. I strolled through the mall, not really interested in what lie within the windows, what stores had to sell, or the lame sale that one store had because it's hurting for revenue. When I saw this one store with several manikins in the window that were all also dressed in plaid, I stopped to look.

Blue, yellow, green, red,-the whole spectrum was there. I glanced at each varying-in-color plaid shirt as I passed the manikin that wore it. My eyes panned up and down to view the whole of the outfit. Then, still looking down, one outfit on the end of the row did not quite match the others. Dirty, mud-caked black dress shoes, hemmed suit pants, plus tan trench coat equals?

I looked up and gave a tiny jolt. "Castiel? What're you doing here?"

Cas slowly swiveled his head to me as if he were some freaky mechanized wax figure. His eyes were stationary on mine, unmoving like blue orb statues, but piercing like a needle into flesh. And they latched onto you just the same.

His mouth started moving; his lips forming words that were not audible to my ears.

"What?" I motioned for him to talk louder because I could not hear him.

I could see he did; his attempt, but I still could not hear him through the glass.

"You know what? Stay there. Just stay there Cas." I put both my hands out in front of me, motioning for him to stay put. Ignoring the irked stares I was receiving from people around me, I joined Castiel in the store.

Sometimes Castiel reminded me of a lost, yet-to-be-trained puppy. He is so confused all the time, but all he wants is to be loved. Anyway…

"Cas, what are you doing here? Why'd you go all 'teleporting angel' on me at that motel back there?"

Castiel stepped off the manikin display, blinking as if he were keeping time. "I have to speak with you Evangeline Masters."

"Please, call me Eve."

He tilted his head, not comprehending. In an innocent gruff voice he asked, "Why? Do you not appreciate your God given name?"

"My _birth_ name. My father named me after his mother. And yes, I don't particularly _like _it. So please, Castiel, it's—just—Eve." I stared at him for a moment.

He stared back, a nonreactive angel with terrible people skills served up on a kebab in front of me. It was as if he was stuck on 'loading mode' in the middle of his doing my mental dissection.

My eyes flicked to the side before asking, "You said you wanted to talk to me?"

He suddenly beamed back into the conversation…or lack thereof. "Yes. It is of most urgency."

"What is it about?"

"Your future with the Winchesters."

His answer stunned me like a tranquilizer dart to the heart and then, all at once, I was afraid. Afraid of all the possibilities that could and could not be. Afraid of not knowing. Afraid of uncertainty. Afraid of what was to come.

"What about my future with Sam and Dean? What is it you're not telling me?" I fumed out of pure terrorized ecstasy.

"Please." Cas extended an arm, his hand reaching slowly for mine.

Oh. "Of course," I grabbed his arm.

I immediately felt as if my stomach was used to scrub old men's disgusting feet and I felt like hurling. I hunched over the grassy ground almost falling completely into it, making sounds that were far from human and holding my stomach. My other hand grasped a clump of lush green grass in a tight fist. "Oohh—oooohhh. God." I burped, tasting my own bitter bile. "Does this happen to everyone you 'poof' around?"

Castiel watched me hobble around like a dunk lady who couldn't hold her liquor. "Different people have different reactions. Some are infinitely more severe than this."

"More severe? Cas, my mouth tastes like dirty gym socks and swamp water!"

Castiel's hands twitched, his fingers on either hand rubbing against his thumbs…or rather, Jimmy's thumbs. "My apologies."

"But then again," I winced, nearly falling to my knees and still clutching my stomach as if all my entrails would spill as soon as I let it go. "Dean didn't poop for a week," I commented, watching Castiel from where I huddled, struggling to keep my lunch down (I seriously regretted that burrito).

Cas's eyes doubled as if he'd seen a premonition. He leaned back on his feet and then stepped forward, his trench coat swishing from the motion. "You are not supposed to know that. It hasn't happened yet."

I gasped, my eyes rolling. The knot in my stomach was gradually subsiding; soon I found the will to stand upright. "Hasn't happened yet? Castiel, what is this all about? Tell me right now," I pointed straight to the floor signaling 'now'.

"It is about you, Eve."

When he said my name, the way he did, exactly the way he did, I knew this was some codename agent serious business. "Cas, does it have to do with why I'm here?"

Cas had looked away from me, the muscles in his jaw dancing with the many thoughts that seemed to swim through his eyes and brain. He turned to me, his hands forming fists by his sides, "Yes. God has given you a gift. He has given you a second chance."

"A gift? Chance? You aren't making any sense," I told him, my words melting into one another from the frenzy my body had just endured.

"A second chance at life, Eve Masters. My Father sent you to Sam and Dean Winchester as a second chance to make your life right. The way He wanted," Cas's words were salient in nature and sectioned slightly off from one another as if not in the same sentence. But that was only because of Castiel's normal speech patterns.

"This is what you wanted to tell me?" I chuckled.

Cas watched me, his eyebrows coming together in a confused tie. "I do not understand what it is you find amusing."

I laughed harder and harder still. 'Till my body trembled furiously and my eyes and face were moist with tears. I laughed so hard, they turned into cries of pain, of raw emotion I had harbored; I had bottled up for so long.

And when you apply enough pressure…

I screamed, my lungs and throat burning. I screamed. I wailed, "_He _is giving _me_ a second chance? I prayed for ten years _Castiel, angel of the Lord. _Ten years! Ten! I've suffered the pain, not He. I was the one beaten until I was unconscious, not He. _I _was the one stitching up my own wounds, staining my sheets and clothes red with blood _he _spilt! My father! My father who I once believed loved me, but then used me as a fucking punching bag since I was _six_. And you know what? Out of all that hardship of not being wanted, of the pain, of not being loved," my voice cracked as it lowered. My throat was scratchy and the tears kept coming, "I actually believe it was my fault. All of it. So _you tell me_ where God was during all of that and who should be giving who the second chance," My voice decreased to an almost whisper as a few more silvery silent tears found homage to my cheeks, "You tell me. Where was He?"

The angel swallowed. His blue eyes glassed over, like liquid sea water, and I realized Castiel was tearing up. He never did that.

It did not change the rage, the fury I felt then. My face was hot and my fists were clenching.

"It is sad, Eve Masters. You have no idea how much you are loved." Castiel stepped towards me.

We were only an arm's length away from each other at this moment. Cas's eyes met mine. Words unspoken were given and received.

"Your time has not yet come," he said, his mouth hardly moving. "God has given you this chance because He loves you. You must change within yourself to realize this."

I still didn't understand a word he said. "This—this 'gift', what is it? Why do I hear things that haven't even happened yet?"

"You must learn to overcome many obstacles," he was being vague. "He has given you a year."

"What? Who has given me a year?"

"My Father."

"God?"

"God," he reassured.

"God has given me a year? Wha-?"

"A year with the Winchesters," Castiel replied.

My voice caught in my throat. My heart stopped. "Why are you telling me this? Castiel? A year with Dean and Sam? What happens when the year runs out? Cas?" I frantically searched his aloof gaze.

"I am sorry." Each word was its own sentence. Its own knife to my heart. I was so hung up on each syllable, I did not notice the hand he placed on my shoulder.

Suddenly, my stomach was up on my tongue and my intestines gave a squirming leap. I collapsed on the dusty downtrodden fake floorboards of the clothing store before Castiel had zapped me to some unknown field.

There, I trembled, unable to stop my uncontrollable jerking. I hurled, and the grotesque unrecognizable remains of a burrito spewed over the store floor. I fell back into my own vomit.

Everything around me was a haze. A concerned crowd formed around me.

I was apart from it. They were apart from me.

Shouts for someone to call 911. My refutes slurring out of my mouth, vowels and consonants in no organized order. Trying to get to my feet. People whispering. Someone telling me it will be okay.

Was it really going to be okay?

Was it?


	15. Chapter 14

Chapter Fourteen:

I don't really know if I wanted an answer to that question. A year? What was a year? Why a year? What would happen?

"Hey Dean," I said to the phone pressed up to my ear.

"Eve? Where are you? Whose phone are you calling from?"

I turned around, searching for the street signs. I had run from the store a while back and didn't even know where I had ended up. People were passing by me in the scarlet red telephone booth, without a care and without noticing the platters of upchuck all over the sleeve of my right arm and my backside. "Corner of 32nd and Capitol."

"Is she okay?" I heard Sam's voice in the background.

"Are you okay?" Dean repeated.

I stifled a cry and wiped away my tears. They would find out eventually, especially since I look like a two-legged barf bag. "No."

"Sit tight Evie. We're on our way."

I hung up and slouched against the phone box. I wept.

The Impala pulled up not five minutes later and both of the brothers hustled to get out of the car to come to my aid. But I held them in their seats with one wave of my hand. I opened the backseat door and got in. "Not here," I said, "Just drive. I'll tell you everything."

Dean and Sam traded cautionary, what-the-hell-happened glances and the Impala rolled away from the curb.

Once at the hotel, I silently led the way back to the room where Sam then used the key to open the door. Both brothers waited for me to tell them what they needed to hear. Dean didn't even say anything about the burrito chunks all over his upholstery in the car.

"Go…get cleaned up," Sam said hesitantly, shutting the door behind the three of us, "Then you can tell us what happened."

I nodded, sniffing. It felt like I had a head cold—clogged up sinuses, stuffy nose, and puffy eyes. You can imagine the weight my heart held…

After changing my shirt, and dumping the old one and my hoodie in the sink to be scrubbed, I washed my face and hands. I trudged back to Sam and Dean. Actually, I just leaned in the doorway to the bathroom while they stared at me—Sam from on the couch and Dean from leaning, with one leg up on the end table next to his brother. He took his foot from the table and stood up straight when both Sam and Dean unanimously recognized my presence.

"Eve…?" Sam pressed.

I bit my lip, my chin trembling already despite my promises not to cry again. "Cas visited me today," I choked down some watery tears, "Actually, he's visited me twice since I've been with you guys."

"And? What did he say?" Dean interrogated, fixing his suit pockets and tie.

"He knows why I have been hearing these voices. They are no mistake. He just won't tell me why," I continued, "I can hear the future."

Sam looked at me, "You can't be serious."

"Do I look like I'm joking, Sammy?" I countered a bit rashly, "The voices, what I'm hearing in my head—it's you and people you meet in the future. Cas says it was part of the gift given to me by God. Or something. He was being vague and not very responsive."

"A gift?" Dean said, "What is this, a Charlie Brown Christmas special?"

Sam glanced at his brother, "It sounds like him." He was referring to Castiel. Then Sam looked back to me, "Did he say anything else?"

"Yeah," my breath was skittish. I stood straight up, "Castiel said that God has given me a year. A 'second chance'."  
Sam gazed at me, trying to piece two nonexistent puzzle pieces together.

"He's given me a year to spend with you two," I finished.

"Well what happens when the clock strikes out?" Sam's voice rose, "Where do you go?"

I shrugged, a single tear falling down my cheek. "Away."

"What do you mean 'away'?" Sam got to his feet, fumed, protective, and not understanding. "Did he tell you anything else? Eve, what is going to happen to you?"

I sobbed, my head dipping parallel to the floor. "I don't know. I don't know."

Sam was infuriated. Both of his hands went up into his hair, his jaw clenched, and his eyes darted about the room as if the walls, the TV, or the cushions, would hold the answers. He turned around, trying to think, and then dropped his hands. He yelled at Dean for being as calm as he was.

Dean was quiet longer than I could ever remember him being that way. He gazed downward, his chin almost touching his chest, as his beautiful white engraved handgun in his hands. He flipped it over in his hands.

After a moment of Sam's heated stare on him, Dean just says, "Don't worry. It's just what happened with me and the pit all over again," with a level tone, a level voice, and a level head. Unlike Sam. "Except this time, Cas is the one chuckin' you someplace you can't come back," Dean said.

I nodded. Everything about Sam and Dean standing in front of me upset me even more. They were both hurt. I just didn't know how hard either of them would take it. "I know. I'm not like you. I'm not special, so why would I come back?"

Sam lashed around. "Don't say that," he said slowly.

"It's true, Sam. You know it. I know it. My Dad knows it. Everyone knows it. I've always been a waste of space and now I'm a waste of space with a health meter running out."

He stared at me pitifully. His eyes looked like glass.

Fed up, Dean shoved his gun back into his jacket and stormed out of the room without a word. He did not say where he was going, not what he intended to accomplish. Nothing. But I saw that look in his eyes. And I knew it all too well.

* * *

Dean fled the apartment with one thing on his mind and one thing only. His lips were in a short thin line, his teeth clamped together, and his eyebrows slanted into his 'pissed off Dean' expression. He stomped outside, enraged, got into the Impala and drove away. Dean stepped on the accelerator and his baby roared. She always helped him to think.

On a lone road a few minutes later of aimless driving Dean suddenly jammed his foot on the brakes and the Impala went skidding over the asphalt. Infuriated and vulnerable, he hit the steering wheel with both hands.

His chest heaved and his breaths were all through his wide open mouth. His whispered, "You son of a bitch." Looking down at the speedometer through the rungs of the steering wheel; his body went slack against it.

"Cas!" He sat erect, yelling to no one, alone in his car. "I'm talking to you, you asshole! Answer me!" His fury along with his spit sprayed everywhere.

Castiel materialized in the seat next to Dean and Dean jumped, ever forgetting Cas's ability to just 'pop in'.

"A simple 'I need to speak with you' would have sufficed," the angel said, watching Dean as if nothing of importance had happened.

"Why?" Dean spat.

"Because it is rude to address me with such profanity."

"No, I mean, why? Why did you do it? Why her? Cas, she just got here and you're taking her away?"

"This matter does not concern you, Dean," Castiel answered in a leisurely manner.

Dean's arms flung themselves at the angel. He pinned Castiel uncomfortably against the interior of the Impala, Cas's head hitting the window. Dean hissed, "Cut the angel crap. This concerns me when I say it does."

Castiel looked appalled at Dean's rash and unexplained behavior. No, he was not hurt. Just surprised. He also didn't bother in reacting aggressively. The angel kept his hands to his side, where Dean could see them.

"No. It doesn't," Castiel said, staring long and hard into Dean's eyes.

Dean stared back, his face growing more and more soft as the seconds ticked on. His grip on Cas's trench coat went slack, "Just tell me, man," Dean's voice was the epitome of desperation, "Tell me, why do you have to do this to her?"

"Because God ordered it of me."

"And you're going to listen to Him, do whatever He says, just like that? After all that's happened to us?"

"Yes."

"Why?" Dean was truly lost.

"Because I am obedient. I am—"

Dean slammed Castiel back against the hard glass window of the Impala, "Where is she going to go? Why only a year?"

"I know," Cas said, his eyes roaming a moment before coming back to Dean's eyes, "She doesn't need that extended amount of time. Her potential has already proven itself."

"What potential?" Dean exclaimed.

Castiel sighed. It was an unamused drawn-out exhale way too long for any normal human being. "I mean the fact that she has already learned to love another again," he watched Dean struggle over that sentence a minute. "You and Sam, idiot!"

Dean blinked; the rage vanished all at once. "Me an-?"

"All she needs to do now it accept the love for her from another."

"Then what?" Dean asked, an eyebrow rising.

"And then, I will have accomplished what I brought Evangeline here to do and I will take her away."

Dean's face contorted into directionless thought. "Wait, _you_ brought Eve here?"

Cas exhaled. "Yes."

"For what? For a little game of 'love and you shall be loved', am I right? Because 'God' wanted to use her as his little chess piece on the game board of sucky ass—" his eyes widened in revelation, "You also planted that stuff in her head about a TV show and about us. So she'd know us and—"

"No," Cas stopped Dean there. "I'm sorry. I have nothing to do with that and I don't know who does. But I'm sure it was in effort to ease her path on the way to the goal," he replied.

A few notes of complete silence swam between the two.

"Lying to her, Cas?"

"Don't speak to me about lies," Castiel ordered gruffly, "Just cherish the amount of time you do have with Eve. Help her onto her path. And don't try to keep me from taking her when the time comes. There is nothing you can do to stop it," the angel instructed forcefully.

At long last, Dean released Cas from his white-knuckled grip and sat back in his seat. They both straightened themselves.

"Why did you bring her to us?"

Cas looked up from surveying his wrinkled trench coat sleeves. "Everyone in heaven knows you and Sam have the strongest bond. That does not exclude God."

Dean looked away, to the black paved road stretch ahead of him. He shook his head silently, his emotions pouring into that one gradual movement.

The sound of wings flapping fluttered about the car and Dean was alone once again.

Dean opened his eyes and stared at the road in front of the Impala; a void that never ended. The honking of a red Mercedes Benz behind him seized him from his eternal internal monologue. He put Baby into drive and drove back to the hotel.

Once there, Sam hopped up from his chair and placed his laptop on the table next to him. "Where were you?"

"Out."

"Doing what?" Sam's voice was a low, concerned whisper.

Dean then noticed the sleeping teenager curled up contently on the hotel sofa across from where Sam had been a moment before. Snatching his worn leather jacket from the back of a chair in the kitchen, Dean spread it out like a blanket across Eve's shoulders as she slumbered onward, her head in her hand.

"Talking to Cas," Dean said, pulling away from the girl once he made sure the jacket was comfortably draped across her. He sat on the coffee table, still watching Eve.

Sam examined his brother and then did the same to Eve on the couch. The jacket's roughened material encased her in a protective layer as she slept on; she looked happy, though nothing besides the jacket had changed. He shifted his weight to his other foot. "What happened?"

"When the hell won't anything happen? When will we get a day of friggin peace around here?" Dean looked to his brother. He appeared very weary, both physically and mentally. Wearing thin, just like his worn leather jacket.

"Should we go someplace to talk?" apprehensively asked Dean's baby brother.

"No. I'm not leaving her alone," Dean answered, standing up. "Come on."

The two brothers went into the bedroom and spoke to each other, in the quiet private space of the room. They stood there, in the halo glow of the lampshades, next to the bed, whispering and talking about all Dean had discovered.

And thus, a promise was made between the two. One both of them needn't to speak. They just knew what they had to do, as if it was instilled in them all along.

Sam looked over to the couch in the living room. It faced away from the open doorway, but he knew Eve lay sound asleep, without a clue as to her whole situation.

In hindsight, all three of them did not grasp the entirety of what lay before them. It frightened Sam and Dean both.

Not knowing.

Getting attached to this broken girl who was sleeping in the next room…And then having her taken away from them?

"Man," Sam mumbled, looking to the ground before looking his brother in the eyes, "Why is everything we love taken from us?"

Dean replied, looking at his brother in the same fashion, "You know, I've been asking myself the same question for years."

****Please review! :) Thank you all!****


	16. Chapter 15

Chapter Fifteen:

Nothing much was said the next day. Undeclared words, voiceless unexpressed emotions, and an unsettling silence left the three of us quietly to suffer under its pestilence.

When we all weren't inching around each other as if walking on eggshells or watching one another from a distance to see if anything had changed about the air, Sam was out doing reconnaissance. You know, interrogations, getting confidential files, putting up a fake façade as a man of the law and some such. Dean insisted on staying behind with me to teach me the ropes on demon fighting (he also seemed more assertive than usual). He said since there were probable hellhounds (we didn't know for certain yet) in town tearing people to shreds, demons were likely to be close behind. So Dean, stiff and straight like a soldier, taught me and made me recite several exorcism chants.

For three and a half hours on through, he sat me in a chair with a bound leather book on the table in front of me, correcting me on my Latin pronunciations and syllables. He drilled me even after Sam returned bearing the news that we were in fact, hunting hellhounds. And Dean made me voice the demon exorcisms until my lips and throat were dry. When he attempted to keep me going on through a fourth hour, Sam finally intervened saying it was high time for a break. Dean reluctantly admitted this, and I was glad to finally down a glass of water.

Sam sat over the coffee table with two separate files spread out flat in front of him. Pictures of marred and unattached limbs, semi-identifiable bodies with their whole stomach completely ripped from their ribs, intestines curled around arms and fingers, blood pooling in places it shouldn't be, and the two people all this had once belonged to were staring in one fixed direction, the traces of their last desperate screams etched in their dead pale faces.

I would have retched if I was not already accustomed to such abhorrent acts. Dean and I huddled around a disturbed, determined Sam, and together we situated out a plan.

"There isn't any connection between the two, except that they both go to the same bar every Friday night, from what the mortician said," Sam explained, "Some Happy Hour deal or something."

I was puzzled. "She doesn't seem like a drinker," I said, staring at one of the pictures of the mangled bodies. This one was vaguely female, I only guessed because of the shredded pencil skirt and broken black high heel shoes.

"What makes you say that?" Dean inquired, blinking curiously at me.

I picked up the woman's picture. "Well one, I know what a drinker looks like. And two, if Kendra Wilkes is one, she must've joined the ranks of alcoholism fairly recently because her job as a secretary must royally suck," I handed Dean the photo and pointed, "See the mark on her wrist there?"

"Yeah." Now he did.

"That's from sitting in a desk too long typing on her keyboard. She must have just gotten off of work when the hounds got her, otherwise the marks wouldn't be there. And see how she only has one diamond earring in? Having a phone up to your ear for so long puts pressure on your ear and I bet it hurts more when you have a $3,500 pair of studs in your ears." Then I quickly added, "Also, the pencil skirt suit thing that she's wearing just screams 'secretary', in my opinion."

"Hm," brackets formed around Dean's impressed frown. "Well, Sherlock Holmes. Who is the next guy?"

Sam passed me the second picture. I looked at it a minute before saying, "He was a chew toy for a while longer than Kendra was. It interprets that he struggled a lot longer to survive and by that knife in the corner, I'd say he even bloodied up a hound too. He probably had training. My guess is the army. He has bold tan lines on his neck—you can barely make it out because of the blood everywhere, but he normally wears a collared uniform, I'm sure. Also, there's a tattoo of some stripes on his right arm. Those are service stripes. My uncle on my dad's side has some just like this." I finished, handing the picture back to Sam, where he searched the picture.

Once pinpointing successfully what I described he said, "Wow. You're right. I wouldn't have even noticed that."

Dean patted my back and moved to his duffel bag on the kitchen table. He rummaged around inside before removing a few things. I could not see what they were because he blocked my view. Dean stared at them in his hands and then faced me.

"Here," he stepped close to me, putting an all-black 92 semi-automatic in my hands.

"What's this for?" I asked, looking over the gun. I glanced to Sam; he smiled, staring at me as if under an entirely new light. In an almost sorrowful, caught-deep-in-thought type of light.

Next, Dean shoved a phone in my hands. It was an old Motorola W220, backed up by Verizon. Dean said, "All out numbers are in there. Sam, Bobby, Ellen, me, everyone you would need. Sam and I are on your speed dial."

"This is mine?" It was perfect.

And finally, the last object was dropped into my (already full) hands. It was one of those flip knives; it had a sturdy black handle and a darkened iron metal blade with barbed teeth. But that was not what caught my unprepared eyeballs. On the end of the handle was a crudely carved pair of letters. Side-by-side, what my eyes processed where 'E.W.'.

"You put the 'M' upside down," I said quietly. Dean and I exchanged a look.

Somehow, I knew Dean knew how I was going to react. "I think Sam and I agree that you're a part of this family now."

My face lifted, a subtle curve of a smile cooking on my face. My heart lifted from its binds in my chest. I looked from Dean to Sam, nearly tearing up. (Wow, looking back, I was such a _sissy_).

Sam added, "I made a promise."

Those two sentences meant more than life itself to me. And for a split moment suspended in time, I forgot everything outside of what was happening here, now. I could feel something shifting inside me. A change so infinitesimal, no one would ever deem it worthy of recognition. But not me—it was all too new. Too scarily real and alien to me.

"I'm a Winchester," I breathed, cupping my new possessions.

The corner of both brothers' mouths tipped into a small smile, mirroring each other.

"Plus," Dean added, shifting and going back to his bag, "you're going to need that when we go hunting tonight."

"Where are we going to go?"

"We have one lead," Sam answered, "We will start at the bar."

"Lucky for us, today's Friday," Dean smiled his cheesy 'the cat caught the canary' smile.

I gazed down to my hands. "Thanks guys. For everything," I pocketed the phone and the knife and tucked the gun in my belt.

"Don't mention it," Sam said for the both of them.

I stretched out my arms, examining my (now clean and barf-free) hoodie sleeves. This jacket just was not cut out for the lifestyle I was going to be living this next year. I ran into my room and fetched a couple $100's from my bag. Then I made for the door.

"Hey, hey, hey. Where's the fire?" Dean looked up from his jug of holy water on the table. He set a container of salt next to it.

"I'm a Winchester now, right? I gotta look like one," I grinned, a little gleeful kid with a family once again.

Dean stared at me a moment. "Sam, go with her."

Sam's head raised and he was about to refuse. But Dean's, "Sammy, go with her." stopped it.

"It's okay," I told Sam. I said to them both, "I have a phone now. And I doubt Cas'll be showing any time soon. I'll be fine." I left.

* * *

That night, Dean, Sam, and I strolled into 'Bloo Moon Saloon' at about six p.m. It was a shoddy sub-par, it's-ladies'-night-every-night type of place. Its sign had a freakin' baby blue Beluga Whale drinking a pint on it, for crying out loud. Beyond that abomination, it did not look all bad. It was nestled between two boutique stores downtown and had various illuminated LED signs in the windows, like a beacon from a lighthouse. The doors were solid oak and the handles were carved into suspicious looking crustaceans.

Once inside, Dean immediately rocked back on his heals excitedly, sneaking Sammy a glance. "Oh, I like this place," a glazed-over wide-eyed smile took hold of his expression.

It wasn't difficult to see why. In the second it took to walk through the door, Dean had scoped out two blonde women at the bar in the center of the room. They wore skimpy clothing, had their hair done, and you guessed it—voluptuous breasts.

I swear Sam and I rolled out eyes simultaneously and denouncingly at Dean when he ambled up to the two women. To grab their attention, Dean whipped out his first card. The 'killer smile', he referred to it. I think it's just a load of manure.

Dean sat in a stool next to the blondes, his smile working like a charm and he ordered a beer.

Sam took one look at me and asked, "You want to learn how to play pool?"

"Aren't we working?" I asked, even though we already moved to the empty group of pool tables.

The tables themselves were beat up with a few tears in the well-worn green material here and there. They were situated to the left of the bar counter, which was rectangular shaped with circular tables on the opposite side.

"Gotta blend in first," Sam said quietly, like a parent giving their child a subtle heads-up.

I nodded. Sam got us some cue sticks and we chose a table.

I particularly love this moment in the story, because everything had not got to crumbles yet. I didn't have a faintest idea of why _I _was chosen to be with the Winchester boys. Or even how my heroes were even real in the first place. I doubt it even mattered to me then, as Sam taught me to break, and I know the thought never crossed my mind. All I knew was everything was okay _now._ I was happy _now_, learning not to scratch the ball and to not accidently hit Sam in the stomach with the butt of my cue stick (my bad, sorry Sammy). I was happy _now _because Sam was smiling and laughing warmly at my mishaps and encouraging me when I (finally) sunk a ball.

When I won the first game, I knew something was up. "Sam," I said in an accusatory tone, "What was that? There is no way I just won. You let me win, you turd."

He chuckled, scratching the chalk nub on the tip of his stick. "Yeah, alright. Maybe with a little more practice I could teach you a few tricks."

"Like the stuff you use to hustle pool?"

He looked mildly shocked at first, but then his expression morphed into the 'yeah…okay' look. "Yeah. Who knows, you might find it handy later on."

"Sweet," I eagerly voiced.

"Now. Want to see a pro break?" Sam asked, fishing out the triangular rack and he dropped the fifteen pool balls aptly into it. After straightening the rack at the end of the table, he removed the triangle and strolled to the other end of the table.

I watched from the sidelines, leaning on the edge of another pool table and held my stick like a staff.

Sam positioned and repositioned the pole, sliding it over his other hand. It took only a second for him to get his bearings, and then _crack!_

"You cheated!" I exclaimed, an agape grin stamped on my cheeks. "You can't sink six balls on the first go!"

"Sure you can," he tossed the stick up and stomped it on the ground, punctuating his sentence.

I pointed at him. "Not without some voodoo magic or something. How'd you do it? Strings? Tiny trained rodents inside the balls? Magnets?"

A smile formed in the crooks of his mouth. "Come here, I'll show you." He tipped his stick to the pool table, his head dipping with it.

We went on like this for the next hour or so—I wasn't really keeping track to be honest. I was having fun. For the first time in a long time.

Thoughts of my father never crossed my mind in these brief moments with these boys. Glimpses of the nightmares I have been dreaming every night were absent from my head as well. And you know what? Even though we were hunting demons (probably the scariest supernatural beings in existence), all traces, all footprints left by fright seemed to vanish into thin air. The shadows of this haunting emotion subsiding to nonexistence.

I know it now, it was because I knew I was safe. Here. With Dumb and Dumber. It makes me smile, looking back on this memory. This was a moment of true revelation for me.

Anyway, sometime around nine p.m., Sam and I called it quits and sat together at a small table. By this time, the bar had become the crowded party spot for single people, instead of the deserted shell of a place it had been when we first arrived. Every bar stool around the perimeters of the bar were occupied, the bar tenders hustled, and the music in the establishment tripled in volume. The tables around Sam and I were steadily filling up as well, and alcohol was being passed all around with smiles and laughs.

Even Dean was chuckling, his eyes shining with lust as one of the blondes (now a drunken mess) hung over him, whispering obscenities into his ear.

Sam and I just sat and talked, expertly camouflaging ourselves as normal people out for a fun time, while we really searched the place for any hint of the parasitic monsters. Sam fidgeted with his cold one in his hand, sliding it on the table between his fingers and his thumb, while his eyes snapped from one face to the next. Every few minutes he would stop this and every few minutes it would pick up again. I didn't blame him. I was doing the same thing. Hunting puts you on edge.

"So," Sam sighed, retreating from his demon search again, "I know it's…sort of a touchy thing to talk about for you—" He shut himself up after that, seeing my omniscient nod.

I rubbed some sweat beads from my coca cola cup, smiling thoughtfully. "You want to know about my mom, don't you?"

He exhaled, treading lightly. "If it's not too much to ask."

I weighed his words, glancing at him, to my drink, and back again. "There's not much to say, really. I don't remember much."

"Well there's got to be something."

I nodded, pursing my lips. "Well, at a family reunion back when I was ten, my uncle Nate, my mom's brother, said I looked just like my mom. Except my eyes," I said, the memory returning to me, "He said those were all my dad. He said she was the most beautiful person ever and there couldn't have been any biological way that he was related to her."

"Yeah?" Sam's lips parted into an amused smile. His eyes laughed, too.

"Yeah. That's why I called him stupid and told him he was handsome. I remember that night I got a wooden spoon across my face. The mark was on my face for a week and my dad wouldn't let me go to school. He made me tell everyone I was sick when I went back. My dad told me I deserved it for being such a disrespectful child." My grin gradually disappeared as I became aware of what my mouth was spitting out. It was like my tongue had a mind of its own.

Sam's smile evaporated. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—"

I squelched the memory. "And then again at another reunion last year at my grandfather's house, I saw some photos of my mom. I know it was her because she looked _exactly _like me at my age. Like my twin with glasses. I didn't even know she wore glasses. Well anyway, see for yourself," I unzipped my new durable dark brown leather jacket, reached for the inside pocket, and pulled out a creased picture. I straightened out the folds best to my ability before I handed it over to Sam.

He looked it over. "Wow. You're right."

I retrieved the next photograph from inside my jacket and gave it to Sam. "I snagged this from one of my grandmother's photo albums. That's my mom and that's me in her arms a few months after I was born. That's how I remember her. She's beautiful."

Sam smiled down at the pictures. "If she was anything like you," he said quietly.

In the next moment, Dean was standing over our table, drinking from a beer. "What is this, date night? Come on while I've been working my tail off, you've been living every scrapbooker's fairytale."

"Working? Dean, you were the one with two drunk chicks all over you," Sam moved to pass my pictures back to me. Dean plucked them from his brother's fingers before they even remotely neared me.

"What kind of person carries around a picture of themselves?" he asked, brackets forming in his agnostic grimace.

"That's my mom. I don't wear glasses." I said it like he should have known it already.

"Really?" his head jerked back as he looked at the image again, "Wow. Uncanny resemblance." He tossed them onto the table and pointed to Sam, using the hand that still held his beer, "It's still two more than you." An annoyingly smarmy grin spread across his face before he got down to business.

I placed my photos back into my jacket as Dean pulled up a chair.

"So apparently the first two deaths around here are only just the beginning," he said as if he could not stress it enough.

"What makes you say that?" Sam questioned.

"Because Little Red and the Huntsman had a whole damn frat party five years ago. Invited the entire graduating class. And according to blondie over there," he pointed to the one woman in the short black dress that he was conversing with previously. Then he nodded and smiled, holding a finger up, when she waved for him to come over to her. "Some jock guy found some old books with Latin inscriptions and the whole nine yards—"

"Uh oh," Sam grumbled.

"Yeah, _uh oh._ So bottom line, whatever the morons recited five years ago was the perfect quick and easy recipe for Ugly's Potluck."

"When were the last two deaths?" I slurped the soda in my cup, jingling the ice excessively.

"About a week ago," Dean answered.

"But that doesn't add up," Sam put forth a countenance of confusion, "If they recited the chant together, shouldn't they all die together?"

"Wow. Okay," I set my drained beverage on the table. "Hunting, you guys got pinned down. I see common sense however, left you two a long time ago. People don't stay in one place all their lives, guys. You off all people should know that. They all probably moved away. Different towns, states, possibly overseas…"

"Of course," Sam said, "There's no way we can get to them all. It's weird how even she's still alive." He was referring to the blonde lady still waiting for Dean at the bar.

Dean rubbed his forehead and eyes. "You're right. Damn. You're right." He took another swig of his alcohol, "Then we need to figure out how many still live around town and get to them before they get flambéed."

"How are we gonna do that when we have to wait for it to show up here?" I asked.

Sam and Dean looked at each other and then they looked at me.

All at once, Sam grinned. An expression suited only to get a rise out of me. "Don't worry, my laptop's in the car."

"I thought you guys were gonna make me sit out again, you jerks!" I exclaimed as Sam stood up from the table.

Dean started laughing, his shoulders bobbing with his every cackle, and crow's feet forming in the corners of his eyes. His head almost touched his beer bottle on the table.

I punched him in the arm. "Not funny," I growled.

"You should have seen your face," Sam left to fetch his laptop.

"I can't," I mumbled, "See, it's attached to my head and my eyeballs are in my head too, so…"

Dean's laughter ceased. His head snapped up and suddenly, he was looking around as if he lost something.

"What?"

"Alex is gone."

"Alex?"

"The blonde chick that was all over me—she smells like apples and cinnamon—" Dean seemed to realize too late that I was, in fact, not Sammy, so he halted himself there. He cleared his throat, "Let's go Evie. Show time."

****I will try to update as soon as I can. (: All reviews are appreciated! Thank you!****


	17. Chapter 16

Chapter Sixteen:

While we made a beeline for the door, I perceived the two occupant-less bar stools in front of the buzzing bar counter. Two martini glasses were left still filled to the brim with the toxic tropical beverage. Knowing how thorough the two women had been in ingesting their first five rounds of their fruity drinks, I anticipated the notion that they would not leave their sixth round unfinished without due cause.

"Dean, wait up," I uttered under my breath as he broke through the doors. I skidded to a stop in the parking lot next to him.

His eyes cut through the parking lot like steak knives. In the next moment, Dean's hand was under my bicep and I was being tugged to the car. "There they are. There they are," he rapidly repeated.

"I can walk myself. I have legs," I breathed exasperatedly. I caught a glimpse of the woman named Alex and her companion hurriedly piling into a black Sedan, as if they were perfectly sober. I could have sworn I saw fear cross the shadows of their faces.

"Get in the car," Dean ordered, releasing his grip on me.

By this time, we were next to the Impala and Sam looked questioningly at us both, his laptop tucked under his arm. Sam watched Dean pass him and get in the driver's seat.

"Get in the car. Get in the car!" Dean shouted, starting the Impala.

Sam and I climbed over each other frantically to get to our places in the car.

"What's going on?" Sam asked Dean as we backed out of our parking space.

"I think she hears the hellhounds comin' after her. And if she does, then she and her friend are on the long road to nowhere." Dean's eyes never skipped from the Sedan in front of us.

We kept a reasonable distance behind Alex's car, so she and her friend were less likely to get suspicious and panic and cause chaos.

"So 're we just going to barge in there and kill the bad guys when we get there?" I asked.

"No," Sam glanced back at me as the Impala slowly jerked forward, accelerating. "We'll sit outside. See it anything happens first."

"And if it does?"

Sam exhaled. "Be ready."

The drive was not long. Alex's house was in a development neighborhood only about ten minutes away from the bar. The 'neighborhood' was really only two parallel streets with completely built and accommodated homes on either side of them. Both streets ended in dead ends, finished in a cul-de-sac with more expensive looking two-story homes encircling them. Behind the two streets of homes was a vast empty field where I assumed more homes would eventually go—I could see the silhouettes of plumbing pipes sticking out of the ground like pins.

Alex drove past all this.

Dean slowed upon approaching one solitary house at the rear end of the plot. We came to a full stop and Dean shut off the headlights.

We watched silently as Alex and her friend staggered half-running to the door (Alex's friend seemingly ignorant to Alex's fear). The lava-lamp-red door closed.

The house was pretty; modern. It had a craftsman edge to it, with a stone base and crème colored walls and a one-car garage. Like all the other homes, this was a two-story, too.

Lights switched on everywhere. Starting with the window next to the door and they progressed quickly to the second floor. We could only see the figures of Alex and her friend as they moved about behind the windows, thanks to the sheen curtains hanging in all the windows.

I whispered, "Well this is convenient."

"What?" Sam said back, his eyebrows drawing together.

"The one house in the very back of the development—away from anyone who could hear the screams. Perfect," I commented candidly, my eyes going back to the window on the first floor. One of the women had run across the room to somewhere behind the door. There was probably a hall.

Sam nodded, sharing my moment of lucidity.

Then, somewhere within the house, glass shattered, splitting the silence. Immediately, Dean shut of the Impala and we found ourselves rushing for our equipment.

"That'll be out queue," Sam said reaching for his shotgun. Dean threw him a can of salt and then he threw me one as well.

We ran together to the door. Finding it locked, Dean instinctively held me back with one arm as Sam kicked in the door. We ran in. Guns and salt in hand, we inched down the hallway like a tiny huddle of tension and alert senses. A large ornate vase lay in shards on the ground at the end of the hall. We were moving slowly towards it, checking in all the rooms to our sides.

"Alex!" Dean tactlessly whispered outwards.

"They're here! They're coming for me!" the whimpers came from the kitchen.

We followed the voice down the hall and into the kitchen. It led us to the pantry.

Carefully, Dean opened it. He revealed the woman named Alex clutching her knees on the floor of the pantry. Dean helped her up.

"Come on," he said, "we gotta get you out of here."

She jumped and recoiled at his touch once she reached her feet. "No. No! You don't understand! They are coming for me! I'm going to die!"

She was an absolute mess. Her pretty blonde curls now frayed into frizzy waves, her eyeliner and mascara ran down her cheeks with her tears, and she was sniffing like a Basset Hound.

Dean tried calming her down. "Trust me. I understand more than you know. Where is Amber?"

"Upstairs," Alex replied, "She doesn't believe me. She thinks I am going crazy. We're all going to die now because of me. I'm—I'm so sorry." She sobbed.

"Nobody's going to die tonight," Dean told her. "Go get Amber," he instructed Sam and I as he poured a salt ring around himself and Alex.

Sam and I ran from the kitchen the instant the windows crashed to pieces in the living room. Curtains sailed. An armchair and an end table were dislodged from their original spots, across the floor as if pushed by an invisible bulldozer. Vicious snarls and growls filled our ears.

Alex screamed from the kitchen.

"Go, go, go, go!" Sam and I ran up the stairs as fast as we could.

Huffing, straining, adrenaline pumping from the frenzy, more furniture slid across the floor, and the growls nipped at our heels.

I could feel the breath of something nasty on the back of my neck. "Sam!"

He snapped around and shot his gun blindly behind me. A yelp and then an angry growl proved his shot to be a lucky one. It sounded like it fell down the stairs, large thudding against the railings and the floor.

Sam yanked on my hand and we fled to the closest room. He slammed the door shut, holding it closed with his weight. Another hellhound repeatedly threw itself at the door, snapping and snarling. Wood was splintering and breaking.

"Salt! Eve! The salt!" Sam shouted as I fumbled with the container.

Messily and hastily, I poured the contents on the floor in a line. My heart pounded in my ears. My mind raced. My hands shook.

Finally, Sam stepped away from the door. His shoulders moved with every adrenalized breath he took. "Faster next time, okay?"

I nodded quickly, gasping and wiping my forehead and getting to my feet. My legs quaked.

The hounds remained at bay beyond the door. It sounded like there were two of them.

There were probably more downstairs.

But where were the demons?

"What the hell was that sound?" Amber entered the room, the bathroom door swinging shut behind her. Her corkscrew platinum curls bounced when she yelled defensively, "Who the hell are you?! What are you doing in my house? Alex! _Alex!_" She screamed as if she were being murdered. And she hobbled around half-dressed in a t-shirt and underwear, looking for something to arm herself with. She found a lamp.

Typical.

Sam put up a hand as if to explain, but then I cut in. "_Hey!_ Shut up! If you were using your brain, you would see we are trying to save your life! And we can't do that unless we have some _quiet_ around here!"

A hound barked and clawed at the ground beyond the closed bedroom door.

"Who the hell are you to tell me—" She stepped up to me, the lamp defensively raising in her hands.

I drew my gun, pulling back the hammer. I was getting real impatient with this woman.

She stopped, frozen.

"Lady, trust me when I say you should really shut up and listen to us," I said.

She gulped. "Okay, okay, sweetheart. Whatever you say." She dropped the lamp on the carpeted ground by her bare feet.

I uncocked my gun and lowered it to my side. My eyes flicked to Sam, where he gawked, partially awed and inspired and partially scared for his life.

"What?" I shrugged, "Come on let's salt the place." I turned to Amber, "Sit."

She hurried to the bed next to me and plopped herself on the edge, clinging to one of the four bedposts.

"And it's Eve. Don't call me sweetheart." I started to one of the two windows in the room and made a line of salt on the pane.

Sam did the other window on the wall next to the bed.

"What's going on? Who are you?" She asked, afraid for her life.

"Your house is under attack by hellhounds and a possible demon or two. I know it sounds crazy, but Eve and I and Dean downstairs with Alex, are specialists with this kind of stuff," Sam said, trying to ease her fright.

"Hellhounds? Demons?"

"I'll explain later."

"What kind of specialists are you?" she looked from Sam to me.

It was Sam who answered. "Ones that can save your life."

I finished my line of salt. "Are there any more windows or doorways or anything where something can get in?" I asked her.

She nodded, getting up from the bed. "I'll show you."

I followed her into the bathroom. I automatically noticed the small square window above the toilet at the end of the bathroom. And it was open.

"Amber?" I stepped on the toilet lid to shut the window, strings of suspicion tugging at my brain. Something wasn't right.

"Hm?"

"How long has this window been open?" Then, I saw it. Trails of a pale yellow powder in the corners of the window. Sulfur.

_Click._

I turned around.

Amber smiled devilishly, her hand sliding off the locked knob of the closed door.

Before I could react, Amber had knocked me to the ground and was on top of me. Her hand enclosed my throat like a manicured claw and her eyes were completely void of color and light. They contained no pupils, no irises. Glazed over black.

I grabbed at her arm with both of mine, wrestling to get to my gun. "S—S—S—" I choked as she cut off my windpipe with more pressure to my throat.

She grinned maliciously, showing pristine white teeth. For a moment, she enjoyed watching my hand reach for my gun that was a few inches too far away.

"Eve? Amber?" Sam jiggled the knob. "Eve, what's going on in there?" He banged on the door with his fist.

My eyes moved to the door. If those were my last minutes alive and breathing…er, not really breathing… my last thoughts would have been about Sam and Dean. And if they were going to get out alright.

Then my eyes snapped back to Amber's endless pits. With a newfound burst of strength, I punched the demon's face.

Her head flew back in a wave of curls…and then her fist shot back, landing hard on my eye. Pain yelled all over my head.

Sam banged on the door louder. He was trying to break down the door. The demon was holding it shut, I knew.

One last grin from Amber was all I saw before black smoke filled the air. Like the cloud of an oncoming storm; billowy and dangerous.

And growing nearer my open mouth…


	18. Chapter 17

Chapter Seventeen:

Burning. Torturous burning ensnared my insides, like flames consuming dry firewood. My every nerve-ending, every vein, every last cell swimming within me ignited in a forest fire where I was left to burn in the center of it all. The demon invaded my body, taking my shape, using me as its meat suit, where some fragment of me was reduced to some unexposed, intangible part of my physical form. I was helpless and hopeless from the get-go. I was left like an insect trapped under a cup. Suffocating.

My hand rose from the floor where I lay. My muscles were no longer in my control. I formed a fist and then stretched out my fingers, turning over my hand. I sat up and grinned. The demon was relishing in its new puppet. It enjoyed my fear; in fact, it felt like it fed on it.

The demon within me snapped at me and I cowered, overcome by the overwhelming sensations I felt all at once. My skin felt as if it were boiling off, peeling and singeing the tiny hairs on my arms. But it wasn't. _My _body was just fine…for now. Inside, is what was set aflame.

Oh, God. It hurt so much. More than anything you could ever fathom. It is incomparable. I wished I was dead instead of enduring this.

And this was only the first five seconds of being taken hostage in my own body…

Sam's continuous bashing against the door grew louder. His shouts through the door were astringently acrid and laced with ill-intention. I knew once he crashed in here, once the demon let him, he was snapping necks.

Not that he would have many. Amber lay motionless on her side, next to me. She was dead the moment the demon set her free. Broken neck, most likely.

The demon smiled down at her bang-up job and then inched toward the tub, sliding backwards. My back touched the bathtub.

I felt a twinge of a click inside me. Was it inside me? The pain, the heat, my heart feeling like a roasting marshmallow, masked the infinitesimal switch. If not _me, _then maybe the monster inside me must have been responsible for this. Did that mean, as the demon felt everything I did, it worked as a two-way street?

Not a millisecond later, I realized exactly what that click was when Sam stumbled in the bathroom. The door flew on its hinges and wood splintered from brute impact. And by the way Sam tumbled into the room, listing dangerously forward, I knew he'd used his shoulder to break in.

If it had been in my control, my heart would have sped up. Screw my being a human torch, Sammy was in trouble. And it was all my damn fault.

_Sam, run. Get away before I hurt you._ I felt the words instead of saying them in my head or aloud (as if I had the ability). The demon feasted on my pleading, terrified words.

"Eve, what happened?" he gasped, dropping to be level with me on the ground. He took heavy breaths, "Are you okay?"

My whole body convulsed as if frightened beyond measure, and the demon wept through my eyes. "Sammy," it said pathetically through my chapped lips, "She was a demon. S-she tried to kill me."

He reached towards me protectively and the demon latched onto him like a helpless little toddler. Sam looked to the girl on the floor, cradling me and my tagalong without a clue. "It's okay. You're okay."

The demon's grin sickened me. The fact that she gripped him tightly in her embrace? And he could not see her eyes flooding black as he held her close to him, too? It made me furious.

"But you won't be," simply stated I. My arms released Sam and I sat back, smiling as if I had already won.

The look of confusion on Sam's face disintegrated a second too late. My fist crashed against his face, the sound of bones crushing materialized, followed next by Sam's body thumping against the cold tile floor.

The demon watched him roll in pain and then climb to his hands and knees, while I lashed around in my contained prison. I could not stand for this. I wouldn't let her.

In the next moment, I jumped on his back and hooked both my arms around his neck. Constricting his airway, I quickly tightened my hold on his neck and he choked for a breath.

Still on his knees, his hands wrapped desperately around my arms in attempt to relieve me of him. I chuckled as he fell to his face, his hair creating a halo around his head on the floor.

_Sam!_

His face was turning red and his eyes were rolling. We struggled—I more effortlessly—on the floor for a span of time. After a time, I could feel Sam's strength fading.

_Sam! No!_ I clawed at the demon surrounding me. _This is my body! _I kicked, I punched, I did anything and everything I thought would harm the demon. I only caused myself more agony.

"Who are—you?" Sam achieved with a staggering, restricted breath.

Unpredictably, the demon let go of Sam. And then, predictably, Sam flew across the bedroom as if suspended by strings. The demon stood as Sam collided with the bedroom wall next to the door. He grunted in pain and yelled out, his arms pinned on the wall next to his head. His feet were a few inches off the ground.

"I am Eridian. Nice to meet you, Sammy boy," the demon smirked.

"Eridian is a girl's name?" Despite the prickly situation, Sam found the room to smile and be a little sarcastic two-year-old.

The demon found amusement in this. She chuckled and slowly reached into my front, inside pocket.

_No, no. Please._

She removed my carved knife. Eridian jerked it out and the black blade snapped forward. "Yes it is. I honestly think it sounds good on the tongue. Now, you sass me with yours, I'll just have to cut it off." She flipped the blade in my hand, watching it eagerly as it twirled in the air.

I saw a flash of fear cross Sam's hazel eyes. He gulped when I stepped towards him, brandishing my knife.

"E.W. huh? This little nothing is one of you guys?" She motioned to the rest of the body she was borrowing. She clicked her tongue as if to scold Sam, "I never pegged you guys as the pathetic charity case types. It's sweet really. But not very professional, I'm afraid. Sentiment gets you nowhere." The demon trailed the tip of the jagged blade down a bulging vein in his forearm. Not slicing skin, just foreplay meant to intimidate.

Sam breathed through his teeth. "Dean!" he shouted.

"He is a bit busy as the moment. Y'know, I don't appreciate you shooting my puppy," the demon said. She turned around, withdrawing the knife from Sam's arm. "That's okay, I suppose. I'll just have to shoot yours," she enjoyed the look of terror on Sam's face.

"You bitch!"

She shrugged off the insult. "Oh dear, looks like I'm fresh outta guns," her fake disappointment was thick in her voice, "This knife will have to do."

_No! Let me go! _I writhed some more. Desperate. This fighting was slowly seeping my energy.

The demon stepped up to Sam once again. "She's quite a struggler, too, Sammy. Like a tiny worm. She definitely loves you," she paused. Suddenly, my right arm swung at Sam's face, my knife leaving a clean cut across his cheek. Just missing the bone. Crimson blood dripped from the slice.

Sam hit his head on the wall, shutting his eyes tightly and letting a noise of pain escape his mouth. He opened his eyes to stare at her with complete and fervent antipathy.

"That's why she will watch while I gut you. Slowly. Painfully. And in your last breaths, you'll watch as I kill her. Sweet, isn't it? You two can die together!" she piped up excitedly. "And then, my puppies will finished off your brother and that broad downstairs while I kick back and watch. Maybe I'll eat some popcorn. Without the salt, of course. Don't worry. I'm not an idiot like you Winchesters."

"Go to hell," Sam said. Absolute loathing burned in his eyes. He was an all-new Sammy when Dean's well-being was threatened.

"Well thanks to you and your brother, _I got out!_" She lashed at Sam again. This time, the knife took deposit under the last rib of his ribcage. She dug the knife in and started upwards, skin tearing and blood flooding, staining his shirt.

"Gaah!" Sam yelled. He took dangerously large breaths when she took out my knife. The cut was three inches long and about an inch deep, but the blood was plentiful. It slid like wax down his stomach and onto his pants, where it flowed over his belt and soaked into more fabric.

_Stop! _My rage enflamed. _You will not. Hurt him. _Rage was all I felt. It consumed me more than the fiery pain felt from the demon. It was almost as if I could not feel the pain anymore. No more flames licking my skin. No barbwires wrapped around my intestines. All at once, I felt my body and it was _mine _again. My eyes were normal; hazel.

"Sam," I breathed. I didn't comprehend what was happening. Had I gotten rid of the demon?

Without warning, he dropped to the ground. Simultaneously and all too suddenly, it felt like I was kicked in the stomach and as if my lungs leapt up into my throat. I broke out in a sweat, and I felt myself heightening in temperature. The demon was stirring inside me, trying to gain control of me again.

"Eve," Sam labored, holding his wound, "Eve."

A single tear fled my eye as I put my knife in front of me. Both my hands enveloped the handle (despite my left hand being broken in several places), and I pointed the tip of the knife toward my navel.

"No!" Sam shouted.

I plunged the blade deep into my midsection. Immediately, my knees gave way and I folded to the ground.

And I could not feel anything. Not the floor. Not the knife. Not the demon. Not a thing.

A jolt from my spine disproved my premature death scenario to be true, and then the black smoke coating the ceiling proved that my actions had saved Sam.

It was okay.

"Eve!" Sam used one of his arms to help himself crawl over to me, while the other covered his wound.

I kept my hands around the knife, staring at the ceiling and blinking only occasionally. I thought I heard music somewhere…a violin executing drearily sorrowful notes that were so eloquently surreal, I thought I was just spiking into insanity before I died. Then the beautiful mourning sound breathed one last long note, before it died as I am soon to be.

"Hold on. Hold on. It's going to be okay," he assured me. It pained him to move.

"It already is," I tasted blood in my mouth. Soon, it exited out of my mouths in the form of tiny rivers from the corners of my lips. "I can't feel anything," I gurgled. I avoided meeting his gaze.

I heard a door open and I slowly turned my head to see Dean standing there, gun in hand. After seeing Sam crumpled on the ground, Dean rushed to his side. "Sammy? Sammy!" he helped him to sit up. I smiled happily, silent.

Sam shoved him away with one arm. "God dammit Dean. Help Eve!"

Dean looked at me. Instantly, I knew hadn't noticed me earlier. It was okay, I knew he only had tunnel vision for Sam. But when his eyes laid on me, everything changed.

He then rushed to me, his eyes traveling from mine to the knife buried in my stomach. "Evie," it sounded as if he were someone wishing on a star or a soldier looking at a fallen squad member from afar, rather than he actually saying my name.

"What's up?" I joked, blinking. There wasn't a knife sticking out of me. I just liked lying on the floor of some stranger's house.

Dean ripped off his jacket and then his button-up flannel shirt. "Stay with me, Evie. You'll be okay."

Tears fell from my eyes. "I'm sorry, Dean. I'm sorry Sam." Shaking my head, I coughed, blood spurting from my mouth.

"Quiet, Evie. We'll fix you up." Dean bent over me and took my hands from the handle of my knife. Then he pulled it from my stomach and placed his balled-up flannel shirt on the bloody hole. He pressed down, applying pressure.

"Dean," I coughed some more. I was drowning in my own blood.

"Cas?" Sam said from somewhere near me.

Dean turned his head, both his hands still pressing on my midsection. "Cas! You need to h—"

Suddenly, Cas was kneeling beside me, his trench coat draped over his propped-up knee and the edges brushing the floor.

"Hiya, Cas," I mumbled. My sight was going in and out of focus. Dean and Castiel seemed to meld into one person. Cas's blue tie wore Dean's shiny amulet.

"Greetings, Eve." He reached his hand down to my forehead and placed two fingers on my skin.

I took a sharp, unprepared gulp of air. I sat up, Dean removing his blood-soaked shirt. I looked to my purple plaid shirt (now a deep maroon color) and lifted the stained fabric. I was met only with healed, stab-free skin.

Dean let out a blatantly relieved exhale. He rubbed his temple and his eyes when he saw my holeless stomach.

"Thank you," I said. I yanked the angel into a hug. He was stiff and clueless in my arms, but I didn't give the least of cares.

"You're welcome," Cas answered. A moment or two later, "Uh, Dean…"

Dean tugged lightly on my jacket sleeve and I let go of his angel.

"Uh, hey. Cas, can I get the healing touch over here too?" Sam asked. "Please."

Castiel stood and then stepped over to Sam to heal him.

"Thanks," he said.

Dean and I got to our feet and Cas helped Sam to his. I picked up my knife and wiped the blood off of it and then I fetched my gun from the bathroom.

After joining Ashley back in the kitchen, Cas left. And shortly after Castiel left, Dean ensured Ashley would be okay—for a while, at least. She accepted the fact that the demon got away and would eventually come back to get her. After the news of Amber's death, she seemed to invite the demon back with an open door.

"So, you're just going to wait for it to come back?" I asked, "After all we went through to help you?"

Dean shared my same expression. Contrasting significantly to us both, Sam looked as if he understood Ashley's wishes. He said, "Well, if that is what you want, there's not much we can do. We will just leave."

"Thank you. All three of you. For trying," Ashley said. She was uncannily sobered up and somber sounding now.

"You're welcome," Dean forced a smile. Sam and I nodded. We all were pretty bothered for having wasted our time, strength, effort, and breath, but we knew someone's last wishes when we saw them.

Then, exhausted and spent, the three of us left the nearly destroyed house. We got into the Impala knowing we didn't really _save _anyone tonight.

But there was always tomorrow.

And for a moment too long captured in my brain, bleeding to death, I thought it was something I would not have.

****Updating soon! (: ****


	19. Chapter 18

Chapter Eighteen:

Just outside Arkansas state in Lyons Switch, Oklahoma, Dean and Sam stand in line to be seated at a locally owned breakfast joint called Patty's Pancakes. Since the encounter with Eridian and her hounds of hell, six hours have passed and not a word was spoken of it.

It was transparent as glass how much Dean craved answers and even more so how Sam wished he wouldn't have to utter a syllable. See to Sam, what Evangeline had done for him—it was unspeakably brave, and sincerely unexpected. For the first time that he could remember, Sam Winchester did not know of a way to say 'thank you'.

And Dean was silent about this whole endeavor solely because he was trying to mentally piece it together himself. He'd considered interrogating Eve, but after seeing her as a human pincushion and how outlandishly drained she appeared (she hasn't slept in the last nineteen hours, for goodness sake), he decided hesitantly that maybe Sam was his better option. But glancing at his younger brother now, seeing the knot in his eyebrows and the brooding stare at the green and white checkered floor, Dean thought that maybe he should wait a bit longer.

Or maybe not.

"Look, are you going to tell me what happened back there or not?" Dean asked.

At the same time, a woman in her mid-forties approached the podium with a grin spread from ear to ear. They waited as she sorted some menus into her hands and then she showed the boys to their table.

Sam replied, "No. Yes. Maybe. After I figure it out myself."

Dean raised his eyebrow, but said nothing as they sat across from each other in the wooden booth next to the window. He ignored the questioning glances he received from the waitress.

Trying to ease some tension in her odd situation, she asked, "Like pancakes, do ya?"

Sam addressed her question with the prompt raise of his eyebrows and a little-less-than-polite "Yeah." spoken from small lips.

The woman brushed some stiff, hair sprayed curls away from her face after setting three menus on the table. Uncomfortably shifting from Sam's retort, she waddled back to the podium with an embarrassed and slightly scorning frown.

"Are you saying you don't know what happened…and you were there?" Dean's eyes scrunched up, crinkles forming in the corners in his expression of disbelief.

Sam blinked hard. His eyebrows went aloft as if a bright light was shone into his pupils. "Yeah. I guess."

"I'm not sure I'm following you here Sammy."

Sam brought his eyes to his brother's, pursed his lips and sighed through his nose. "She saved my life," he said.

Sam saw Dean shift with interest. Dean looked to the pair of doors at the back of the restaurant.

Meanwhile, behind the door on the right, Evangeline was hunched over the commercial-grade white sink. With the water running over the fabric, she dutifully scrubbed her ruined plaid shirt. She attempted to revive the piece of clothing despite her knowing it would solve nothing. The bloody torn hole in the center would still remain, fraying and forever infected with her blood stains.

It was sad. She was gazing down at the intermixing brown and green stripes with eyes that have only seen loss. It was just a shirt. But it was another that she'd have to throw away because of her blood.

Dean and Sam would never know it, though she scrubbed vigorously and unnecessarily so she would not have to go back in the diner. Burning time. So she wouldn't have to see the boys' questioning faces. She knew they were curious. She knew they craved answers like a trickster craved candy. But, for once, she just did not want to explain herself. Mainly because there was no explanation.

Other than she did what she had to do. Because she cared for Sam. Sam and Dean both.

Evangeline just didn't accept that it would be proven so soon, so readily, and to such an extent. She almost died for Sam. She would have died to protect him.

Eve dumped the soppy, soaked shirt into the trash bin next to the toilet. She'd already changed into a new shirt. Now she wore a white tank top with a horizontally stripped shirt over it and her brown leather jacket over that. To waste more time, she washed her hands, all the while looking at herself in the mirror.

In her last week and a half, her life had taken a nosedive off a cliff. She'd been across the country with two nut jobs, stolen all her father's money and left him tied up in the house, and fought a ghoul and a demon and hellhounds. She knocked on death's door and waltzed back again. Who could ever say they did all that in less than two weeks?

Eve lowered her hazel eyes to her hands, and rubbed her fingers together to remove the residue off her knuckles. A pool of pink tinted water swirled down the drain.

Freed. Alive. Eve knew she should be counting her lucky stars. But she just felt so…trapped. No one knew what it was like to be in her shoes. To have this 'you get a year' hang over her head, to have a number ever decreasing like a bomb about to go off. What was to happen after that number hit zero?

Eve would give anything to forget all that might come to pass. Anything to forget what she felt with the demon inside her. Anything to forget what she did not feel when she'd lain on the floor with her knife sticking out of her stomach.

At last, Dean took his eyes from the door. "Alright," he said, propping up an arm across the top of the booth, "Come on. Tell me." He held up a hand and signaled 'give it to me' with two of his fingers, his ring on that hand glinting in the light.

"The demon's name is Eridian—because I know you're going to ask—" Sam said, sucking in air, "And I think she was in Amber since the bar. Anyway, I let her and Eve go into the bathroom and before I could do anything the door shut and Eridian possessed Eve. Amber was already dead."

"Are you saying you _left Eve alone?"_

Sam's facial expression dropped the moment he caught his big brother's disappointed tone. "They were going to lay down salt! She was only like ten feet away."

"That's even worse! The bitch could've killed her!"

"No," Sam forced back, "I don't think she could have." He blinked again, realizing his words. "Eve stabbed herself. By herself. She took back control of her body and took her knife to the stomach in order to keep the demon from hurting me. The demon said she was going to kill us both slowly and let us watch each other die and Eve—she just took back control and," he made self-stabbing gestures in front of him with his hands, "like it was nothing." He let his words settle in the air. "It takes a lot to take back control like that."

"I know," Dean said through an almost closed mouth.

Then, the boys' attentions were simultaneously snagged by the leather jacket clad teenager walking their way. Eve slugged along, head down as if her energy was sucked out from the bottoms of her shoes. Her feet dragged and her Converse were especially dirty on the white tiled floor.

* * *

I sniffed in the smell of syrup, butter, and scrambled eggs hungrily as I sat down next to Sam in the booth.

Sam was the first to say something. "What did you do with your shirt?"

"I threw it away," I told him. I noticed the menus on the table and it was as if neither of them had touched theirs. "So, what's for breakfast?"

"Anything you want," said Dean.

"Really?"

"Yeah. Sam and I were thinking we could take a break for a couple of days. Maybe go do some normal stuff. Go to a baseball game or something."

"We were?" Sam said.

Dean stared. "Yeah. Of course though Evie, you would have to get inked up first."

In the beginning, the idea sounded enticing. But the moment the tattoo came into play, I recoiled. I glanced down to the table. "Where do I have to get it?"

"Well, over the heart is the safest option."

Sam cut in, "But you don't have to get it there if you are not…y' know, comfortable."

"Then after we can pull a Lionel Richie. Drop everything and go, go, go." A grin slapped itself on Dean's face and his eyebrows bobbed like apples. He was entirely too proud of his pop culture knowledge.

I had time to think of my response because the waitress named Beatrice (her name tag had one of those Wal-Mart smiley face stickers on it) came by our table. She asked if we were ready and we ordered. I stacked up on orange juice and chocolate chip pancakes. I had had them a lot when I was younger. My mom made them. I wished I could remember the taste.

"Alrighty then," Beatrice squawked, her round rosy cheeks bouncing, "I'll put these orders in right away." She flicked some insanely immovable curls off of her shoulder.

Dean smiled and Sam said 'thank you' and then the waitress went to the kitchen. Dean and Sam waited on me.

"I don't want one."

Dean swung his head to the side, knowing very well I would not comply so easily.

Sam turned to me. "I'm not sure I would like to repeat what happened last night again," he said quietly, innocently.

I nodded once, twice, seeing his face. "As long as it's on my shoulder blade," I said, "And…you two aren't in the room when I get it done."

It was an odd request. They both picked up on it automatically like radar and questioned me with their stable gazes (Sam was more outwardly inquisitorial).

"Please," I pushed again.

A few minutes later, Beatrice came back with our food on a tray. She set our plates on the table and a jug of syrup 'special' for me. Then she left, giving the three of us another smile. Her eyes were clouded with thought. I supposed it was because she thought us to be a peculiar little family.

"Okay," Dean agreed, pulling his coffee closer to himself. "Eat your pancakes."

* * *

After breakfast, the idea that Dean would have forced me to get a tattoo either way I had answered planted seed in my brain. And honestly, since they agreed to stay out of the room while the tattoo artist poked and prodded, I couldn't care less. I held it as consequence for how much I resembled out a burnt out husk. The bags under my eyes weren't designer, but they were solid proof of how jaded I was feeling. The weariness attached to my bones like velcro but weighed on me like lead and I pondered the idea of falling asleep while the tattoo artist did his magic. Would that be feasible? Probably not, but it sounded nice.

Anyway, we cruised through the streets of the town while listening to one of Dean's prized cassette tapes. Beatrice had given Sam directions to the nearest parlor when Sam had asked (side note: I think he's literally the _only _man ever to walk this earth that has willingly asked for directions) and then we went on our way.

While driving, the voices entered my head again. Without knocking, mind you. How rude. It hadn't been a full day since I heard them last and I was beginning to think they decided to take root in somebody else's brain and pester them for a while. Guess not.

To be brief, there were mutterings, shouts, cries, bloodcurdling screams, and sounds of object colliding with object and body colliding with object. Dean and Sam arguing. Dean and Cas talking quietly to each other over…something. Damn static. Lots of static. Bobby was there, too. Something about his legs and a 'damn deal with Crowley'. Who is Crowley?

I have seriously started to think this 'gift' is pretty stinking lame. It causes more trouble than I would care to admit. Aren't 'gifts' supposed to be useful?

So in order to keep my mind from the voices invading my thinking space, I counted the street lamps as we drove past them. They were shorter, contrasting to the kind you would see on a highway and the bulbs gave off a grungy pee-yellow hew as if they'd never been washed.

The grass everywhere –on private lawns, next to the walkways, and in the rinky-dink play park in front of the town hall—was greatly in need of a water. It was patchy in several places and only a partially healthy green in others. The sidewalks were aging; cracked and crumbling in areas where tree roots surfaced above the concrete.

Trashcans dotted these sidewalks, but tiny clumps of litter could be spotted next to every street gutter in the curb. The buildings leading up to our destination all appeared to have been built in the 1960s. Blocky staunch exteriors, made mostly of red brick, and had an abundance of large windows.

When we pulled alongside the curb and the Impala switched off, I ended my lamppost count at 47.

We parked outside a converted gas station that was painted red, given white window trims, and a blue colored roof. The sign in the road simply said 'Tattoo' in a bulky intricate font, but the building itself looked as if people could get shot in there.

"This is the place?" I asked.

"Looks like crap," Sam added. His nose crinkled at the barred windows and the desperate looking 'OPEN' sign behind them.

"Yep," Dean answered me. He opened his door and exited the vehicle. Sam and I got out after him.

"You remember the crackpot place where we got ours?" Dean smacked his brother's shoulder and he stepped up to the door.

I looked at Sam and he made a face. "Not a good experience."

I nodded, saying 'yeah…okay' in my head, and we entered the shady building.

Surprisingly, the inside was brightly lit with the circular bulbs imbedded in the ceiling.

The interior paint colors matched the outside like an old lady matches her tacky handbag to her tacky sweater. The walls were a brighter red, closer to orange in the spectrum, and were nearly concealed behind the hoards and hoards of tattoo designs/ideas hanging in frames all over them. The wall on out left was entirely covered in a mirror, like what you would see in a dance studio, and it reflected everything on the three other walls. This included the seating area on our right, the collection of body art on the walls, and the four separate cubicles connected to the wall on our right. Separating the four cubicles were three low-bearing walls (they went up to my chest, in height) and in one of the sectioned off areas, I saw the top of a bald head and the sound of a machine running sounded, bouncing off all four walls.

A seriously body pierce-fierce lady with raven black hair stood up from the desk in front of the mirror wall. She turned to look at her reflection in the mirror and pushed up her boobs through her lightning blue corset, ran a finger over her clashing red lipstick, and stepped in front of us.

Sam gawked, terrified and awed all in one. Dean gave her his once over.

She also wore patterned leather leggings and military boots without the laces. A pit bull was tattooed on her shoulder and some stars were tattooed on her hands, but that was the only sign of any body art on her. She preferred piercings. I could tell from the rows of hoops in her eyebrows, the hoops and studs in her ears, and the two studs and the one devil-tail looking piercing in her nostrils.

"What're we looking for today?" her voice was shockingly light compared to her dress, "Piercing? Rad tat?" However, she stared at us kind of weirdly—like she was too excited to poke people with metal sticks.

"Just a tattoo," Dean said. He handed her a picture of an antipossession mark that he printed off the internet. "Thanks," he glanced at her name tag hanging from the bottom lining of her corset, "…Marcy?"

"Yep, that's my name. Don't waste it, pretty boy." She looked at me and smiled. It was a friendly gesture, and I immediately liked her. Despite her scary appearance.

"So who's first? Gigantor?" She looked to Sam.

Sam's eyes flicked from Dean to straight ahead as he stood taller, his face going blank.

Dean sniggered. "No, uh, just," he set his hand across my shoulders, easing me forward, "our sister here."

Her eyes dropped to me. At that angle I saw a girl my age hidden in her slim features, though she must've been twenty-something. "You sixteen?"

I nodded slowly. Was it lying if it wasn't spoken?

She shrugged, "Alrighty then, cupcake. Follow me. You two can take a seat, " Marcy told Sam and Dean, motioning to the chairs opposite the mirror wall.

I trailed Marcy into her cubicle closest to the front of the shop. Each of the four cubicles had easy access due to the absence of a door and a single black dentist-office looking chair in the middle of it.

"Gigantor?" Sam mumbled, walking behind Dean, "Really?"

Dean grumbled back over his shoulder. "Pretty boy," he made a face. In which, he almost closed his eyes, scrunched his nose, and waved his head from side to side.

I turned to them, as they sat in the chairs closest to Marcy's tattooing cubicle wall and whispered, "_Cupcake?"_

Sam and Dean shrugged together. I did too. Then I stepped into the cubicle.

Marcy's section was clean and professional; didn't have anything on the wall and was kept orderly so I knew right off the bat, she took this gig seriously.

Marcy swiveled on the toe of her boot, snapping on some white medical gloves. She grinned at me, seeing me shaking in _my _boots (figure of speech. Sneakers!) and grabbed a contraption off the counter beside her. It resembled the skeleton of a gun with an ink vial attached to the side.

"So go ahead and take a seat. What color? And where am I putting it, little sis?"

She removed the orange ink bottle from the object, put it on a shelf with other small bottles just like it. Then she removed a roll of paper towels from under the counter in the corner of the cubicle.

I sat on the dentist chair and said, "Black. On my shoulder blade, please."

She eyed me slyly, giving me a smirk. "Daredevil, are we?"

I shrugged. "It was the better option."

"Okay then, missy. Take off the jacket and your shirt and lay down on your stomach." She pressed a toe down on the floor pedal by the chair and the dentist chair flattened out like a bed. She put a black ink vial into the latch of the skeleton gun and snatched up a handheld tool.

It reminded me of a dentist's instrument, but it had a sharp metal needle at the end of it. That part reminded me more of a kebab. A less edible kebab.

"Uh," I stood a little, peeking over the wall, sat back down, and then glanced at the mirror wall. In the reflection I saw Dean with his arms folded across his chest and his head tipped back, resting against the wall with his eyes closed. Sam was flipping through the pages of one of the magazines he found on the table in front of him.

Marcy took her eyes from her device and looked at me, "Don't worry. I'll taze the creeps who look."

I gave a slight smile, "Have you actually tazed anyone who did?"

She yanked a chair under her, settled herself, and then gave me a solid wink.

"Sweet." I nodded, smiling and removing my jacket and shirts.

"Which shoulder? Oh, and remove that bra strap," she casually added. After seeing my face, she said, "Just the strap."

I removed the strap from my left shoulder and laid on my stomach.

Sliding on her rolley chair around to my left side, without bringing her eyes to me and making sure her wheels didn't get caught in the cord of her needle device, she said, "Put your hands under your head as if you are going to sleep on them."

I did as she said, facing her.

Then, what I was preparing for.

Marcy stared at my imperfect skin for what seemed to be an eternity (but in reality, was only five seconds). Her eyes traveled my scars. Some were fading into invisibility, others were too large and raised above the skin, but all were created from my father's unforgiving hand.

Her dark brown eyes met mine. "Okay, I wanna know how you got those scars," she said quietly, in a mock-Joker voice as if not to sound too serious. So that only I could hear.

"Dirt biking accident," I grinned through my lie as if I was proud of it.

She nodded approvingly. "Nice," she said normally. Then she switched on the tattoo machine, flung the cord over her shoulder and a droning buzz from the machine filled the space.

Marcy gathered some paper towels onto her leg and leaned in close to my ear, her mouth nearly touching it. "Did your big brothers over there do this to you? Or was it your Dad?"

I shook my head; sounds of my hair sliding on the upholstery were close to my ears. "No. It was my dad. My brothers were the ones who saved me from him," I whispered back, single droplets of tears occupying the corners of both my eyes. Wow. Emotional overload. I wasn't prepared for this kind of confrontation.

She lifted herself from me and wiped my tears with her thumb. "Good big brothers," she stated.

I forced the upturn on the end of my mouth.

"This'll hurt a while before your body naturally numbs your skin, so try to slip into that happy place," Marcy advised.

"Okay."

"Ready?"

"Yeah."

* * *

The tattoo was free of charge. I originally thought it was out of pity, but I felt seriously stupid when Marcy took me aside and told me we had a lot more in common that I thought. No, really. We both had abusive fathers. The only difference is that he died in a car accident when she was twelve, so she, her baby sister, and her mother were okay after that. I'm glad she and her family were able to escape when they did. Marcy was really nice.

The tattooing experience wasn't, however. While getting it done, it felt like the needle was pricking me 1,000 times per second in the same spot. When my skin bled, Marcy wiped my shoulder over with a paper towel and then continued to mark my body with ink. Now, a few hours later, my shoulder felt like it had a very bad sunburn. The aching leveled out after a while, thanks to the special ointment I put on the tattooed area and the gauze I set over it.

Marcy said it would ache like this for a few days and I should keep it covered for a few days more. Fine with me. I had no plans on flashing my backside to anyone, anywhere, anytime.

"So," Sam broke the silence.

Dean bent over the green cooler in front of the Impala and removed his third beer since we stopped almost an hour earlier. We were on some remote stretch of asphalt in the middle of podunk Oklahoma and decided to take a break for a while. Stretch our legs.

Dean stood up with his beer, popped the cap, and took a gulp before sitting back on the hood of the Impala on the other side of Sam. Both brothers took another sip of their drinks.

Sam wiped his mouth, "Where to?"

"Huh?" I asked, momentarily forgetting the burning in my shoulder.

"I said we'd go do something after you got your ink. So we're letting you pick, cupcake," Dean put stress that last word to make fun of me.

"Yeah," Sam raised his bottle to his lips, "Cupcake," he said in an equally teasing tone. Smiling, Sammy took a drink.

I cringed at the word. "I'm going to kick you both."

Sam kept smiling, and chuckled. He gazed out to the gap in the trees where the winding road seemed to end where it met the setting sun.

Bands like lines of pastel interblended with each other. Baby blue sky gradually dissolved into a vivid violet, which in turn passed into orange. Completing the picturesque painting was the sun's halo, spread out like a mist over the tops of the trees lining the street from start to finish.

We sat for a few more precious moments, admiring the scene silently, enjoying each other's company.

Then I said, breaking the peaceful quiet, "How about the zoo?"

Sam looked at me, putting a foot up on the bumper of the car. He set an arm on his knee and took another drink from his beer. A stressed frown claimed his face so that he resembled much of a Muppet and he tipped his head to the side as if he was thinking 'well, she could have picked something worse'.

Dean leaned forward from where he sat, raising an eyebrow at me. "You want to go to a zoo? To watch animals sit in the dirt and scratch their ass?"

"Zebras can't scratch their butt."

"Yes. They can, actually," Sam chimed in like the nerd he is, "They scratch using their teeth."

Dean stared at Sam a moment, visibly disturbed at Sam's extended knowledge. Then he met my eyes and raised his hand to showcase Sam, "See? Zebras scratch with their teeth. Yet another useless piece of information neither one of us cares about." He looked at his brother and said, "Thanks Sammy."

Sam rolled his eyes.

Dean hopped off the car to close the lid to the cooler and he tossed it back into the Impala. "Okay, gang, looks like we have a plan." He set his hands on his hips, his jacket flaring out behind him.

"So we're going?" I asked. Joining in on his Scooby Doo impersonation, I exclaimed, "Jinkies!"

"Hey, Velma only says that when she's figured out something or when she found a clue," Dean said.

I put up my hands like a felon caught in the act. "My bad, Mr. Scooby Doo Expert."

"Yeah. You're bad."

Sam was the next to step off the car. "I'm going to you now—before we leave." He threw a thumb over his shoulder, stepping backwards, before turning to walk into the woods.

"Ew. In the wilderness?"

Dean gave a few low chuckles (that sounded like a scarier version of 'heh heh eheheheh hehe'). He came back to stand next to me.

I still sat on the hood of the car, watching the sun descend below the horizon.

Dean cleared his throat.

My eyes snapped to him.

He looked around, as if searching for something. "Oh, nothing," he said, "How's your shoulder?"

"Feels like a sizzling hotdog," I said, ignoring his weirdness.

He nodded, his lower lip sliding over his top lip, covering it. He set his hand back onto his hip and tapped his boot on the dirt. Dean bent his head and snuck a few glances my way.

"What?" I said.

"Nothing. Actually, yeah. There is something."

By the way his voice hardened, mentally, I went 'uh oh' and braced myself for Dean Rampage a La Mode (minus the ice cream).

"…You looked," I said, "Didn't you?"

"Yeah. I did," Dean spread his arms out by his sides, "Shoot me."

"Why?" I exclaimed, my face getting hot, despite the flushing feeling.

"Because there was a mirror wall and I wanted to know why you were so intent on keeping Sam and I away," he spat back, his voice gaining intensity. When he wasn't talking, his jaw clenched.

"You promised!" I shouted, my emotion going further than tears. My fist formed by my side. No, I wasn't crying. Dean deliberately went against his word…and Sam probably had too. I was enraged.

"And you need to stop feeling sorry for yourself!" he jabbed a finger at me.

"Feeling sorr-?" I was taken aback, hurt.

"Yes!" His face strained with emotion and he started pacing. His hands did some talking themselves as he said, "You mope around all day as if you hate being here and you act impassive every time you wake up from a nightmare. You lied to Sam and I the very first time we met you and you cry a lot."

"I don't have nightmares!" Salty water welled up in my eyes, obscuring my vision. "And I don't cry a lot!" Lies, all lies.

"Yes you do! Trust me, I know what waking up from a nightmare looks like! You have one every time you shut your eyes, right? What do you dream about? It's your dad, isn't it? You're back in that great big empty house, taking punches, and who knows what else while you hope you can make it to the next meal. It happens so often, you try to act like it doesn't bother you, but it does and you feel sorry for yourself because you can't get rid of them. So you cry. You cry all the time!"

"No I don't!" I screamed at him. Out of anger, I hit the car with my closed fist.

"What I don't understand it how come you hold on so much to something that hurt you." He paused his speech and his pacing. Dean searched for the right words, staring at me with his jaw set and his eyes aflame. "Let me ask you a question." It wasn't a request. It was too forcefully spoken to have been a request.

He continued, "You personally showed me how well you can fight. I mean, you're smart, you're a fast learner, and you're a dead eye marksman if I have ever seen one. So how come you never fought against your father? He was giving you the smack down and you didn't even _try."_

"I did try."

"Bull."

"I was scared, Dean!" I exploded, "He's my dad! I love him, just like you do yours. What did you do when he walked out on you, left you alone, huh?"

Dean steamrolled up to me, putting a finger in my face. "Don't you bring my dad into this! You have no idea what that's like!"

His breath smelt of alcohol and the madness that I saw in him then, I saw my father, too.

I wiped my eye with the collar of my shirt. My voice trembled, but I kept my argument going. "You would wait for him to come home every time and hope he would actually play the part of your dad instead of your commanding officer."

Dean's hand came down swiftly, banging against the hood of the car.

I cringed and screamed from the sudden out lash, covering my head and ducking away. From inside my huddle, I continued to speak, lowering my voice," You kept loving him because he's your _father_ and that's what kids are supposed to do. _Love their parents."_ Tears fells down on the silver bumper. "I just loved my dad too much."

From my little peephole, I saw Dean's boots slide in the gravel dirt as he stepped forward, kneeling down. Faded blue jeans touched the ground at the knee and his dark military-style jacket about touched the ground.

"Hey. I'm sorry," Dean said. "Evie, I didn't mean it."

"Go away. I don't want to talk to you," I mumbled, sniffing through a clogged nose.

Dean bent under me, twisting his body so that he looked up into my huddle; his head was the only thing in my view.

"Tough," he said. "You are going to have to talk to me sometime. And you are going to have to realize that you don't have to suffer anymore. Stop beating yourself up. He was the monster, not you. And he can't hurt you anymore because you have me. And Sam. And we aren't going to let anything or anyone hurt you again, alright? But you gotta help yourself, too." He blinked up at me, seeing if his words had any impact on me. Then his eyes moved to the side as his neck rotated in his trials to crack his neck. "Man my neck hurts," he complained, moving out of my view, standing up.

I unfolded my arms and sat upright. I watched as Dean turned around, flapping his arms and rotating his head to stretch the cramping muscles. As he turned to face me again, I leapt up and planted my arms around his body. Burying my face into the folds of his many layers, the combination smell of smoke, cheap motel soap, and the lingering aroma of barbeque wafted into my nostrils. I sank into his warmth, holding fast to the back of his jacket and smooshed myself into him. Because if I let go, he would disappear forever.

"I wish I had a brother like you," my voice was muffled and barely audible.

Dean enveloped me in his arms, a protective shield. He rested his mouth on my shoulder and he held me like I held him. As if it was the last time.

"Today's your lucky day, Evie," he spoke tenderly. All traces of his previous aggression vanished. "You get two for the price of one."

There was no price. I smiled contently, listening to the infinite ga-da-thump ga-da-thump of Dean's heart beating.

Dean kissed the top of my head tightened his arms around me for one last squeeze before we let go of each other. He smiled down at me. It was a tiny curve in his lips, but it was full of love. Just as his eyes were.

I smiled too, permitting my frozen breath release.

Together, we looked to see Sam standing a few yards away. He had watched, waiting for us to just fight it out. I could tell.

"Before you say anything, yes I looked too. And Dean's right," Sam admitted. "Okay. You can yell at me now."

"I'm not gonna yell at you, Sammy." I raced up to him and hugged him just as I hugged Dean.

Sam laughed semi-nervously as his arms encased me. First over my shoulders, behind my head, but then one of his hands moved to hold my head close to him. It was as if he didn't know how to hug short people.

Like Dean, the odor of smoke stuck to Sam, but not as strongly. Sam also smelt of cheap soap; more so than Dean and his clothes were less harsh, as if they'd been laundered recently.

He set his chin on the top of my head, both of his arms dropped around me again. A moment longer of this and he let me go.

For a second, we all stood. Clueless, and looking at each other.

Then Dean tossed his hands up by his shoulders. "Okay. Awkward."

"You said it," Sam said.

"Yep," I added.

In unison, the three of us migrated to the Impala and slid into our seats. The Impala revved to life, purring and whirring with excitement. Like she'd seen the whole scene play out in front of her and was happy we patched things up. Dean put her in gear and pressed on the accelerator.

"Hey Dean?" I said, flattening out in the backseat, anticipating a few hours of sleep.

"Yeah?" Dean shouted over his rummaging in his cassette tape box. The clattering was loud. Picking a tape, he inserted it into the player and Metallica started over the speakers. He lowered the volume to hear me speak.

"You realize you smell like barbeque, right?"

Sam looked at Dean. I saw him smell the air around Dean.

I smiled, suppressing a laugh at the sight.

Dean shook his head once as if to reply 'Innit' great?'. Doing a little dance, a stupid grin plastered like a stamp on his face.

He turned the volume up.

****Please review, thanks! ****


	20. Chapter 19

Chapter Nineteen:

The trio's detour to the Oklahoma City Zoo was nice…for the two hours that they visited. After that interval, heh, let's just say a message came from above.

One and a half hours into their venture, we come to this scene:

The Winchester boys were devoid of their typical 'Hunter' look. Each bother was stripped of their excessive layers. Heavy-duty jackets were left in the car and plaid button-ups were tied around their waists, leaving their normal t-shirts the only remaining concealment. Hot and perspirating plentily under the early June sun, they strolled leisurely side-by-side down a wide paved concrete walkway.

Of course, as the old saying goes, old habits become us. Hidden under the backs of their t-shirts, Sam and Dean's handguns remain. A knife, the demon killer, also remains tucked into the older brother's boot, carefully covered by his pant leg.

They watched Eve as she pranced ahead, careful to step into every paw print she crossed ingrained in the concrete. Thoughtful and striving to imprint these moments in their heads, they saw her skip ahead, peer into an enclosure, and then turn to them. Eve smiled as she pointed excitedly to an animal she saw. She stepped up on one of the lower rungs of the gate, stood leaning to get a better view, and then stepped off the rung to run to the next animal enclosure.

"Look at that," Dean mumbled under his breath as they continued down the path after Evangeline. Dean wasn't really interested in animal-watching, but Sam liked to stop to read every board with wildlife facts on them whenever they appeared.

Sam took his eyes from the Mexican Grey Wolf habitat to their right. His gaze came on Eve as she hopped into the paw prints inlaid in the pavement. He stepped next to his older brother, stopped on the path.

Dean said, "She's happy. Look at it. It's all over her face. She's a grubby little kid at a Chuck-e-Cheese."

Sam smiled, wiping his brow. "Well, yeah. Eve never got to have a childhood. She had to grow up too fast." The thought made Sam's smile diminish.

"Yeah," Dean agreed, thinking.

"What's up?" Sam asked.

Out of the blue, a toddler on stubby legs waddled past Sam, who was pursued by a young mother in a jean skirt. She scooped the child up into her arms, and gave an overwhelmed, exhausted exhale. She apologized to Sam and set the child in her stroller.

Dean eyed the mother's backside before coming back to their conversation. "Nothing. Just sounds familiar, that's all."

The younger brother nodded, all too aware.

Eve turned to face her boys. She was sweaty and miserable, basking in the mid-day hours but she was overflowing with excitement and enjoying her time. Her smile disappeared for a solid moment as if she was struck with a morbid thought. Then Eve waved the boys over, grinning once again.

They quickened their pace to join Eve in front of the doors to a walk-through bird exhibit.

"I just thought," Eve pointed to a tiny photo booth across the way. It had a deep green patterned curtain and on the sides of the booth were several cartoonish zoo animals with personified expressions taking pictures together.

"I could add to my family pictures," she finished. Eve then tapped her collar bone, retreating, as if it was a bad idea.

She was not wearing her jacket either, but if she was she would have removed the two pictures that she already held so dear.

Sam watched a young couple appear from behind the curtain and retrieve a single photo from the slot after paying. "I'm up for it," he said, hands on his hips. Then he pinched his shirt collar with his fingers and pumped his hand, puffs of air coming up to cool his face and dislodge damp hair where it stuck to his skin.

"Yeah, but how are you going to fit, Sammy?" Dean said, sniggering to himself.

Sam made the 'very funny' face as Eve ran up to the booth. The boys followed soon after.

Sam climbed in the confined space, hitting his head on the curtain rod. "Ow," he gave the metal bar a dirty look.

Dean laughed, watching him fumble inside the booth.

"Shut up Dean," grumbled Sam.

Eve laughed, getting in after Sam. "I want to be in the middle," she stated. "Move your big butt," she told him.

"Come on guys," Dean was the last to get in, "Think Tetris."

They squeezed together, cramped like sardines in a sardine can. Dean flung the curtain across the rod.

"Alright," Eve said, "Nothing cheesy."

She pressed the round red button on the ledge in front of them. A screen popped up and she entered the type of picture she wanted. The countdown began at five and the image of the three of them sitting together appeared on the screen.

Sam moved his head closer to Eve's, ensuring his place in the photograph. She smiled at him. Eve then turned to Dean, staring at him fondly as she said, "Thanks."

That word meant a lot more than appreciation. It resembled all the things he had done for her and how much she was glad to call him and Sam her family.

4…

And how much she cared for Dean and Sam.

3…

How much she loved them both.

He slipped an arm around her side, leaning into her. He turned to the camera, "Thanks yourself Evie."

The trio smiled and the camera flashed.

The finished product would be something Eve would forever cherish. Once outside the photo booth, she held the picture in her hands. "It's perfect."

She looked at Sam and Dean in the picture beside her. Their smiles were genuine; one-of-a-kind. She would surely never see them the same way again. Sam's smile was open, showing teeth—the kind of smile paired with laughing, twinkling eyes. And Dean's smile was barely there at all—only a touch of a curve in the corner of his mouth. That was okay though. That was, well, them. Eve couldn't have asked for anything more.

Sam and Dean hovered over Eve, standing behind her. They too, scanned over the picture.

Sam took a breath, "Okay good. I thought I blinked."

Eve's face was taken hostage by a grin bright enough to blind. She slid the photo carefully into her back pocket.

"What's a barn doing in the middle of a zoo?" Dean suddenly asks, looking up to a scarlet shaded building.

Sam and Eve look up together. Eve shrugged.

"Let's go find out?" Sam suggested.

A family of six rumbled past Dean as he made his way towards the building. Two four-year-olds ran about his legs, playing tag with each other. Dean was at a loss on how to deal with them. His hands were up by his chest as if to ward them off and he stood rigidly still when he was not wriggling out of their way.

Eve and Sam stood back to watch the scene, amused.

The mother apologized and yanked her sons away. The family continued down the path.

"Freakin' gremlins," Dean said.

"Dean!" Sam exclaimed. The look that panned his face when Dean was being a complete uncivilized moron in public always made Eve want to laugh.

"What? It's not even crowded and I'm climbing over people. Somebody needs to take out their batteries."

Eve opened the heavy wooden side door into the barn. "Kids don't run on batteries, Dean."

Dean stepped into the barn. "They should."

"Oh, cool," Sam followed his brother in, "It's a nocturnal building."

Dean exhaled, strolling uninterestedly to the glass cages embedded in the wall closest to the door. "Sam, your nerd is showing."

Eve came to stand between the brothers, waiting until her eyes adjusted to the darkness.

Dean squinted into the glass cage in front of them. "What is that? It looks like a turd pile."

Sam bent down and narrowed his eyes, reading the informational plaque next to the slimy brown frog. The creature had buried itself under dirt and leaves. "That," he said, "Is a Smokey Jungle Frog."

"The Smokey Turd Frog," Dean corrected.

"Smokey Jungle," Sam countered.

"Smokey Turd," Dean walked away, smirking.

Eve ran across the building to some cages. They were built using the existing horse stalls, with a wire mesh extending all the way to the slanted roof above their heads. Some owls sat fat on their perch near the top of their provided enclosure. In the dark, their yellow eyes were like highlighter on a page. More owls sat on their branches closer to the floor, as the entire habitat seemed to consist of nothing but climbing branches. There was a hollow space in the center of the enclosure however, and it was fit enough for the birds to flap around should they ever feel the need.

A black, brown, and white speckled owl turned its head and cooed at the teenager. Its eyes blinked, indifferent to her existence.

"Hello," she said quietly, kneeling down to get a better look at the football-sized bird.

Without forewarning, the sound of flapping wings echoed through the barn.

Eve looked up, the owls suddenly disturbed. She stood.

"Cas?" Dean came to stand next to Eve, Sam following soon after.

Dean stepped closer to the mesh cage. In a hushed tone, he said, "Cas, what are you doing in the cage?"

Castiel stared at the trio, on the wrong side of the wire. He shrugged, pivoting slightly while curiously watching an owl swoop down by his legs. He met Dean's eyes again and another owl landed on his shoulder.

He saw nothing wrong with this situation.

"Standing," the angel replied. "I need to talk to you."

Sam glanced to the doors on either end of the barn. He hoped no one would come in on this…whatever you might call it. Eve hid her smile behind her hand as a second owl perched itself on Cas's shoulders.

In the same tone, Dean said, "Well comes talk to me out here."

"Why?" Castiel sounded defensive, a guarded look manifesting on his face. An owl ruffled its feathers on his shoulder from his movements.

Impatient, Dean hissed through his teeth, "Because normal people are on this side of the cage," Dean motioned with both of his hands to the empty space next to him.

Castiel tipped forward in a lean. "I am not a normal person. I'm an angel. We've gone over this."

Dean lashed about, jumping and stomping around in a strange spaz attack. "Just get over here, Cas!"

Castiel was suddenly outside of the owl cage, standing directly immediate to Dean. He studied him with his pensive blue eyes.

Dean stood up straight and then halted, frozen in place, realizing the angel's proximity. They stood only a few inches away from one another, eyes locked, and expressions decipherless.

After a moment of this intense stare down, Dean quietly said, "Personal space, Cas."

"My apologies," Castiel took a giant step backwards.

Sam loudly cleared his throat, tearing his eyes away from his brother and the angel. He rose his eyebrows up at the Eve, who now stood next to him. Then he turned back to Castiel. "So you wanted to speak to us about something?"

Cas considered him for a second before meeting Dean's eyes. "Yes. It is about the seals. More are breaking."

Eve came closer, suddenly feeling like herself instead of a kid having fun at a zoo.

"How many are left?" Dean asked.

"Fifty-three."

"What about the other thirteen?" Sam piped up.

Eve questioned the angel with a look.

"They broke," Castiel said simply in his gravelly voice, "Too quickly it seems, but we have noted a pattern."

"Who's 'we'? What pattern?" Dean persisted.

"My brothers and sisters. Demons are assembling in Illinois. We have no clue why, but I am certain the next seal is about to be broken."

"Any idea what it might be?" Dean jerked his head to Cas, eyeing him closely.

"None. You must stop it from breaking."

"How are we supposed to if we don't even know what to look for and where to look for it, besides your vague directions?" Eve addressed Castiel with the pressing issue.

Castiel dropped his eyes to Eve's. "Carefully," he then looked at Sam and Dean separately, "I can tell you where you need to go. Meet me at your car in five minutes."

With that, he was gone.

Eve slipped a hand in her pocket and strode towards the dim-lit lantern closest to her. It hung on a tack above her head, perfect for reading things under. She unfolded the zoo map that she was given and her eyes swam over the paper. "The zoo is too large. Five minutes is cutting it pretty close."

Sam offered, "Last one there is a rotten egg?" As he said it, you could visibly see the regret gradually take hold of his expression.

Sam eyes snapped to Dean, and Dean's eyes shot to Eve's.

All at once, they bolted to the door.

* * *

"Evie, you doing okay back there?" Dean asked over his shoulder. He and Sam were a few yards ahead of me.

The rear of the entrance gate was in sight and we kept it full speed ahead, ignoring the people stopping to stare at us as we passed. I have to say, it would have been a peculiar sight to see—Dean and Sam scrambling over each other, shoving and pushing as if they were five and then me, red-faced and charging after the pair like a bull.

"Yeah," I let out a wheezing gasp. I sounded like a long-time smoker. "You guys are just fast."  
"Got a world to save, rookie!" Dean's laughs were limited to his raspy breaths.

I had begun to fall back, my chest feeling painfully knotted and heavy. Yet, as soon as we passed under the stone archway belonging to the entrance gate, I found a new burst of speed.

Coming up next to Dean (who was tugging on the back of Sam's shirt to slow him down), I managed, "What do you think the seal is?"

When he lost his grip on Sam his eyes flicked to me and he assessed the question with pursed lips and a thoughtful expression. "I guess we'll find out."

At last, we made it to the Impala. Castiel was leaning against the drivers' side door, hands in his coat pockets as he waited for us to near him.

We slowed. My feet slapped the ground, discharged from their chore.

I won the race.

Okay, no I didn't. That was a lie.

In my defense though, I have short legs. Also, Sam's overgrown self really makes me mad sometimes. Dean too, with his agile freakin' bowlegs.

If you must know, Dean and Sam came in close together. They tied. Which meant I am the rotten egg.

Cas pushed off the car, swiveling around nonchalantly and surveying the parking lot around us. He faced us again, his eyebrows rising as if he only just noticed our presence.

"You're aiming for Addieville, Illinois," he said, "There are demons assembling there. Not in large numbers, but it was enough to grab out attentions. The demons congregate around institutions where smallish humans go to absorb knowledge."

"Schools? Schools, Cas. Kids go to school," I said.

"School," he said slowly, tasting the word, "Yes of course."

"Is that all?" Sam asked from my right.

Dean stepped from the other side of Sam and repositioned himself closer to the angel. Sam's question struck the curiosity cord and caused Dean to open his ears.

"Should there be more?" Castiel asked.

Dean answered, "Like do you know how they're attracted to elementary schools? How are we supposed to deal with it?"

"No, we don't."

Dean rolled his eyes at this. And Sam had this particular look to him. Disappointed and concerned, he kept his mouth clamped shut, because his eyes did most of the talking for him.

"I assume you will figure something out," Cas finished.

"Wait, you aren't coming?" Dean put a hand out.

"No."

"Why not?" Sam added, "We could use your help."

It was then when Castiel's eyes drifted over to me. "You have all the help you need."

Sam and Dean turned to look at me. I felt like I was under a spotlight and it was unnerving for that half-a-second.

When Dean turned back to the angel, he let out a tired exhale and reached into his pockets for his keys.

Castiel was gone again.

What was that remark supposed to mean?

Sam circled around the nose of the Impala. Dean unlocked the doors and we replaced out missing layers back onto our bodies.

"Freakin' angels," Dean muttered under his breath, getting into his seat.

Sam and I silently shared his irritation as we too, got in our seats.

Illinois wasn't that far away (especially with Dean's driving). I would expect to be there before dawn.

* * *

I was right. That sort of drive would normally take just over ten hours to complete, but with Dean's driving it only took nine hours.

We arrived to Addieville in the dead of night and it was, by far, the smallest town I have ever been to. At 2:00 a.m. it was also the most eerie—picture perfect for ghost town galore. The darkness masked the buildings in the streets, shut in the windows as if it were chalkboard paint, and made the road before us appear as a bottomless inky river.

Despite how sooty everything seemed at this hour, I counted at least three different churches on this road alone. This wasn't even the main road—we were coming up on it now.

There wasn't anything wrong with the number of churches either (make that four…), in fact, it might help us if we should ever run out of holy water.

"We should follow the main road down a bit to see if there are any motels," Sam said weakly. His weariness was catching up to him; he yawned.

Dean's right hand turned the wheel, while his left rubbed his eyes tiredly.

I was tired, too. I tried to get a few hours of sleep during the drive here, but the voices would not leave me to my lonesome. However, they silenced a moment before Sam spotted the motel.

"Look," he said, motioning to the building coming up on our right.

The sign was alight with a red-lettered 'MOTEL' spelt out on it. It was one of the few objects in this town that was still producing light, so it was kinda like the light at the end of our tunnel.

Turning into the motel parking lot, I exhaled, "Finally."

It was a pair of buildings shaped like the 'equals' sign you would use in math class. It had a slanted grey slate roof, red awnings against white painted stone walls, and rocking chairs in front of every scarlet door.

Dean took his foot off the gas and the Impala crept into a parking space at the rear of the lot. He removed his keys and the Impala rumbled no more.

Sam hit his head on the back of his seat, closing his eyes and shimmying down in his chair, melting into the upholstery. Dean did the same.

I said nothing sunrise would be in a few hours and shortly after, the kids would be filing to school. It would be a waste to settle in a room now. Plus, this was the only motel in town and it was the 'mom and pop' type—they were closed for the night.

"Night," I said, rolling over and lying flat to face the back of my seat. I pulled the collar of my jacket up around the back of my neck and crossed my arms to conserve warmth.

"Night," the brothers mumbled together, already drifting to sleep.

Maybe I could get some sleep now…

Fireworks.

I jumped out of my pre-sleep peace.

Whizzing, popping, exploding.

Young Sammy laughing and talking to present day Dean.

_Maybe Heaven's a place you relive your greatest hits, _Sam said. Normal Sam.

Or maybe not. It's okay though, I'm sure I don't need sleep.

****Please review! Thank you!****


	21. Chapter 20

****Hello readers! Here is my latest addition to Eve's story with the Winchester boys. Unfortunately, I will be wrapping it up fairly soon...I hope. I've been having motivation problems lately, and reviews from you all would really help me get writing again. Mostly I have been sitting at my desk staring at a blank piece of paper. It's depressing. So please, just take a minute or two t review my work. :) It would greatly help. Also, since I have mentioned my wrapping things up soon with Eve's venture, I don't really know how may more jobs you would like me to send her and the boys on. I have at least one planned out, but I would appreciate it if you told me you'd like to see more of Eve, and her growing process as a Hunter in your reviews, too. Thanks a million t everyone! Now, shut up Andrea, and let's get the show on the road! :) ** **

Chapter Twenty:

It's 7:00 in the morning, I notice as I glanced at the clock. Dean just came in through the motel door. He had breakfast for the three of us in a large white paper bag, which he set on the square table in front of Sam and I.

Since the time we woke up we've checked into room number twenty-two (on the south side of the second building) and got in a good hour's worth of research. Sam was on his handy dandy laptop, while I was stuck leafing through age old books with most of their pages written in Latin.

What exactly were we looking for? Any clue as to the next seal on the brink of breaking. In the past hour, we scavenged, hunched-over and eyes burning.

Sam cracked his neck with his hand, and then went back to tapping on his keyboard. His eyebrows slanted into a concentrated reading expression and he pursed his lips together, exhaling loudly from his nostrils. He showed no intensions of eating the food Dean brought him.

I, however, was starving. I sat up from my wilted sitting position I held in my seat and sprang at the paper bag. I reached in blindly and pulled out an egg and sausage biscuit. Unwrapping it from its plastic foil, I sat back down into my chair and slid the book I was reading back onto my lap. I rediscovered my slouched posture and continued researching with my breakfast in my hand.

Then I gulped, closing my eyes and rubbing my head. I breathed deeply; silently wished the voices would shut up. They were a nuisance; a headache. Lately they physically hurt, and as the talking steadily progressed, so did the throbbing in my brain. Like a pounding on a drum and the spike of pain you get from eating too much ice cream in one go.

Dean propped up a chair between Sam and I at the table, snatching the bag from in front of me. He sat down.

I felt his eyes on me before he started talking. "So. You ever going to tell us what you hear?"

I stopped munching and a few buttery breadcrumbs fell from my mouth. I flicked off the ones that landed on the book. "What?"

"The voices. You know, the psychic deal you've got going on since you Beam'd yourself over here. The ones that tell you what happens to us in the future."

"Uh." I heard him correctly the first time. I just decided I would not tell them about what I heard.

Before now, I suppose I had kept just how severely the voices were wearing me down to myself because I didn't want to express how afraid I was for their future and how it would eventually lay out. I had the map in my head, but I would rather get lost forever than follow it.

The horrible things Sam, Dean, and Cas would be thrust into head-long; the inhumane _agony _ that they felt, and the self-sacrifice and the blood that would be spilt…Their yells and cries of pain, their tears, their desperate pleas made in vain, they were all so close. Too close.

I could _feel _them. Their wounds were my wounds. These voices were intangibles, yet they had the outstanding ability to weigh down my entire being. This helpless feeling, this knowledge of knowing my efforts to help them would be fruitless…they had a very real, very tangible weight set in my heart and I was slowly coming undone. I was a fraying carpet; unthreading at the edges. I would unfurl until I would be nothing but sweepings at your feet.

But it was all internal, and I promised myself it would stay that way. The voices in my head were only extensive proof for me to know that their future was set in stone.

"No," I finally answered.

Sam and Dean simultaneously questioned me with a look.

Though Dean looked more as if he'd been shot. He jerked his head back and blinked at me, "No?"

"No."

Sam was surprised I was so firm with my decision. His sturgeon face said it all. He did not argue against me.

Dean did, however. A natural hard-head. "Why the hell not?"

"Because it's nothing important."

"Oh yeah?" he said, leaning back in his chair, "I don't think whoever planted them in your head wanted you to just ignore them. Plus, I want to know what it is that made you freeze up like you did back there at Bobby's."

Oh. I remember. That was when I realized Sam drank demon blood.

I glanced at Sam. "Or, that's exactly what he wanted me to do. Ignore them. Cas was never clear on it, but I am pretty sure this is the 'obstacle' he was talking about. And I am going to get over this boundary on my own terms, all right?"

"What if you're wrong? What if the whole point of this 'gift'," he made quotation hand motions, "is for you to actually tell us what might help us in the end?" He was getting fiercely passionate at his end of this heated argument.

Sam said, "Dean." The 'stop' was implied.

Dean at forward in his chair again. He hadn't touched his food, which proved to me he really was seriously peeved.

"No one should know too much about their future, Dean," I said calmly. In fact, I was calm the entire time. Unlike a big-headed green-eyed bunghole sitting next to me.

Dean swung his head to Sam, intending to hear his opinion match up with his.

Sam was all too willing when he said, "I think she's right."

Dean rolled his eyes, looking back to me.

Sam checked his watch, fixing it in place on his wrist. "Hey. School's almost in session, we should get down there."

The three of us immediately loaded up, with Dean and I choking down the remnants of our breakfast. Dean and Sam routinely checked their shotguns, packed the salt rounds, and then flung their guns secure, the weapons clicking together. Sam shoved more salt rounds into Dean's duffle bag, which was laying open and hallow on the patch quilt bed.

I checked my own shotgun and then tossed it into the bag, Sam and Dean's following promptly after. Jugs of holy water. The demon knife. And more salt containers. All components of Demon Brisket, serving for three.

Dean zipped his bag and hoisted the strap up over his shoulder. Then the three of us checked and rechecked out handguns' magazines before returning them to their rightful concealments.

Walking out to the car, I was struck with a thought. "You guys feel like we're willingly walking into something we are not going to like? Like getting pushed on the train tracks when a train is coming or being dumped into a volcano?"

"All the time," Sam answered. The grating creak of our doors slamming unanimously punctuated that sentence.

The school was within walking distance, that it being only five blocks away, but since we obviously do not go to elementary school and don't have a kid that does…the Impala is key to camouflaging ourselves in this atmosphere.

Anyway, upon arriving we pulled next to the curb across the street from the school, so that Dean's side was facing it. Then he put her in park and dropped his keys on the dash next to the steering wheel. He sat back, exhaling and preparing himself for a long stakeout.

Sam too, though he had his dad's hunting journal with him. He was skimming through it diligently, like a devout Christian to his Bible. As if he expected to find something that would help us.

I had my doubts. Dean did, too.

Dean turned to his baby brother, glancing down at his father's handwriting and the clippings of newspapers and small drawings within the pages. "Dude, you don't actually think you'll find anything?"

"It doesn't hurt to try," Sammy replied, his eyes still stuck to the book.

Dean faced back to the school while propping an elbow up on the door handle. He rubbed his mouth with that hand, watching the hefty metal doors with a certain eagerness itching in his eyes.

Where we sat, the whole school building was in sight. We were far enough away from it, to capture its enormous capacity (even for a small town, the school was a nice size). It was a one-story brick building covering an entire city block with a horizontally stripped exterior inlaid in the brick. The stripes were tan against the pale red and four feet in height, with skinny windows sticking out of the tan like candles on a birthday cake.

Reaching from the front doors out to the street was a covered walkway. It had brick pillars for structural support and, at the end, the name 'Addieville Elementary' was spelt out in bright blue painted letters in the archway.

The school yard was deserted; the play park to the side with the monkey bars and red slides was empty. Kids had not yet begun to arrive, but the front parking lot was packed with the teachers' cars.

"It's a pretty big school for such a tiny town," I said in an observant tone, just audible enough to be heard.

Without removing his eyes from the journal, Sam said, "Outlying towns have kids who need to get to school too, so that's probably why. District lines—" he lost the ending of his sentence while reading.

"I know how school districts work," I said, "I wasn't born yesterday."

Sam blinked a couple times and then shook off my reply with a small shake of his head.

Like this, we sat, for another twenty minutes before cars started broadsiding the school with their metal hides, and children started piling out of their parents' sedans and minivans. Mothers walked hand-in-hand with their children across the streets, when the cross walker with the handheld stop sign and neon vest allowed them to cross. Kids from ages five to eleven walked, ran, even danced through the securitized metal doors.

We didn't see anything suspicious at all.

That's what worried me most of all.

I had a hunch the demons were already inside. Maybe they possessed the teachers or the janitors.

Then the steady flow of school-bound kids liquidated to nil. The school bell rang obnoxiously. It was one of those older school bells with the large round shell and the thin arm that would beat against it, creating a shrill sound that would make you want to claw your ears off.

Dean let out a breath. His perturbed expression set in the grooves in his face, and he rubbed his cheeks and chin again, as if to wipe the expression away. He looked like he was thinking what I was thinking. The inklings of a plan were already churning in the gears of his mind.

"Dean," I said.

His eyes met mine in the review mirror "Yeah?" he looked back to the school.

"What are you thinking about?" I asked, curious. I knew what was going on in that brain of his, but I was tinged with this uneasy feeling. I don't know why.

"I can't think to myself a minute?"

I stared at him, not answering.

Sam lifted his head (finally) to look at his brother, too.

Dean gave his 'yeah alright' face, saying, "I was thinking we might have to go in and check the place out. Make sure no one's possessed yet. See if we can get to 'em before they can."

Yep. I was right. Oh, the cleverness of me.

Sam's eyes flicked to the brick building, his mouth closing of its own accord. "Okay. We should wait until after lunch hour. Make sure no one suspicious comes in before then and then we'll go check it out."

"Wait," I jumped forward, unclicking my seatbelt. I landed almost entirely in the front seat. "You're letting me go in?" I looked from Dean to Sam (who had reacted to my jump and slid away from me as far as their seats would permit).

"If you are up for it," Sam replied with a smile.

"Hell yeah!" I exclaimed, sitting back in my seat. "So are we wearing disguises? Like when you dressed up as a janitor," I pointed to Sam. Then my finger swung to Dean, "And you dressed up as a gym teacher?"

Dean gawked at me, still unused to my knowledge of their lives.

"Yeah, I guess," Sam filled in for Dean, a similar expression on his face.

"By the way Dean, pegging that kid with a dodge ball was not very nice," I said, leaning back.

Dean made a face. "I was going easy on him. He's fine. The kid took it like a man," he seemed to trail off and then snapped back, "I think Sam and I will go in as FBI—"

"Too noticeable," Sam and I said together, throwing that idea in the trash.

Dean widened his eyes. "Yeah, okay. Janitors it is then."

"Where are we going to get our disguises?" I asked.

"Good question," Sam said. He thought a moment, some fingers to his mouth. He then pointed to the ceiling as if a light bulb went off and he said, "I bet they have some in the janitors' closets inside."

"And if they don't?"

"All right, I got it," Dean said rushedly, "Geez. We'll be pest inspectors. We have the disguises in the back and Evie. You can be—" that's where his gears stopped—something blocked their revolutions. "Eh," he waved the predicament away with his hand, "We'll cross to that road when we get there."

"Yeah," Sam said subconsciously, "That is going to be a problem."

"It could be 'take your kid to work day'," I offered it up more as a question.

"Works for me. If anyone questions it, we give them the slip, got it?" Dean says, eyeing me. His eyebrow raised and his mouth was left open in his wait for my reply. He honestly looked as if he had a belch he needed to get out, but it wouldn't come up.

After the plans were made, we sat for another three hours. And we watched. We waited. We sat, watched, and waited some more. No one went in and no one came out.

I was reduced to fiddling with my flip-knife. Pulling the blade out, clicking it in. Pulling it out. Clicking it in—very arduous process, you can imagine.

When Dean told me to stop, and that I was being annoying, I stuck my tongue out at him.

Finally, the moment I thought would never come to pass arrived. In the middle of lunch hour, Dean and Sam got changed in the recreation center to our right. A few more minutes of waiting and getting ourselves in order, and then Dean drove around to the side of the school and discreetly parked the car.

On the side of the building now facing us, stood a set of double doors. By the way the school was finished, these doors were at the end of a long hallway. But more importantly, they were out ticket inside.

Sam pulled his lock-picking tools from his jumper pocket, stared at the timeworn metal pins a minute and then passed them to me.

I took them and slid over to the double doors. Dean and Sam stood behind me as casually as they could manage as I was busy jingling two of the lock-picking tools into the lock. Before I expected it to deposit, the lock unbolted and I opened the door slowly.

Peering through the crack in the door, I saw that the hall was deserted. Everyone was in the cafeteria eating their lunch, but it is the safer option to check for stragglers.

I motioned for the boys to come in, and they did, with their 'pest inspecting instruments' in the smaller stickered duffle bags in their hands. After Sammy stepped inside, I carefully let the door close, quieting the noise as much as possible.

Dean watched the end of the hall, turned to Sam and I, and then said, "Let's split up. See what we can dig up before we meet back here in an hour."

"Okay," Sam said, repositioning the straps of the bag in his grip.

"I'll go with you," I told Sam.

Dean's eyes skipped to Sam. "Okay," he said. He seemed terribly willing for the unpreparable, like a soldier going into battle for the first time in his career. Then he started down the hallway, duffel bag beating against his hip with every tentative step forward.

Sam inhaled a sharp breath and held it in with puckered lips. Then he let it out, swinging his closed fists to his sides. He shifted to me, arranging himself for this job. "I hope you're a convincing liar," he said aloud—a thought outspoken.

I shrugged. "Not bad. Lying is what kept me from going to any foster homes growing up," I said, perusing down the hallway in-step with Sam.

"Right," he answered. "You sound alarmingly proud of that," he added a heartbeat later.

I guess I did. "He killed my mother, Sammy. Do you really think a restraining order or the law would keep him from doing so to me?"

"You're right," he said, his face surprisingly neutral, "So why didn't he?"

The question remained without an answer. I did not know, nor would I ever.

I replied with silence. A sad immediate smile played a tune on my mouth. As we walked, I issued forth in a whisper, "I used to wish he would kill me and get it over with. All the time." My voice was so soft, I saw Sam strain to hear it.

It was something I never spoke out loud. As if the words had a tainted presence; they would continue to plague me. Once spoken however, nothing changed. That feeling never changed.

I was wishing for some sense of security, but all I was left with was a void—my life hallowed out into a meaningless state.

I lowered my eyes to the glossy linoleum floor. It was patterned with gray and brown spots that looked strikingly similar to crystalized dirt particles and fragments of small stones. Before looking back to Sam, I studied the finger-painted children's artwork hanging on the tack strip all down the hall. Every twenty or so feet, the artwork would break for a door.

I stepped over to the first door in a long line of doors with rooms to inspect, my hand on the knob. I pressed my ear to the door, listening for noises of inhabitance. There were none. Sam and I slipped into the dark classroom.

Sam flicked on the lights as I moved to the windows at the rear wall.

He said, "I use to want the same thing. You know, before Dean went to hell. I wanted to trade places with him. I would be the one who went to hell and he could go on living. I would save him and cause us both less pain."

This is where I paused my search for sulfur in the windows.

He continued after gathering his thoughts. "And I was wrong. Either way it played out—and how it eventually did—the pain was unavoidable. Eve," he spoke, forcing my eyes to come to his, "You have to realize that pain is something you can't escape. You're human. It's a natural process of life. We just feel it more regularly than others. And unlike Dean and I, you grew tolerable of it."

"What are you getting at Sammy?" I moved to the window on the other end of this wall, stepping around the teacher's desk and chair.

"Pain is meant to break us down. Make us smaller," he said, "And even though it feels like it's succeeding _all _the time_, _the only thing it accomplished was making you stronger."

"Are you saying every beating I went through was a good thing?" I huffed, flustered.

"Of course not," he retaliated easily, his voice level.

"Every close call with death?"

"No," he let out a noise of irritated exasperation.

"Every scar then?" I asked, "Because I look at you and Dean and see two Hunters who are constantly getting cut and hacked at, but lack any sort of scar anywhere."

"That doesn't mean we didn't feel it," he replied shortly. The anger in his voice was like a trickle of venom in a glass of fine wine. "All I'm trying to say is: you are strong. Stronger than you believe. You have gone through so much, yet you still look people in the eye and walk around like you own the place. I just think you owe yourself some credit."

"I'm not that strong. I'm still susceptible to injury," I mumbled.

"Yeah, you are," he argued. "You wouldn't be human if you weren't. But then again, most people from your kind of background wouldn't make it as far as you did all by themselves."

"That's because I got good. At everything," I added, "Surviving."

"It's what we do best."

My eyes traveled outside the window. No sulfur in the sills, and a bright baby blue sky seemed to wane my fuel to argue; I did not want to fight anymore. I was done with yelling at the two people I cared for most.

"Sammy, if this was some sort of 'thank you', this is the cruddiest one you have ever given," I said, reflecting back to Arkansas.

He chuckled through his nose, a thin grin on his face. "Yeah. It's not my best."

"But I appreciate the sentiment," I continued.

Moving to the next classroom on the assembly line, I stated, "You should also know that you and Dean are stronger and braver than I ever hope to be. You have always been like that—even with the demon blood inside you—and I admire you both because of it. I've always looked up to you guys."

His smile was precious; small and born from the heart. "Can I ask you something?" Sam questioned, his grin fading, "Why did you do it? How?"

It was alien to my being. I had given up trying to piece it together myself. "Y'know, I don't know. I guess I was just so absorbed in my hate for Eridian and the rage I felt when she was hurting you—I guess it was stronger than her shackles on me, so I don't know. I took control. And hey, self-sacrifice is the Winchester way," I said lightly, attempting to heighten the mood. "Guess I'm officially part of the clan now."

"Yeah," he breathed, the word executed on a half-laugh. He then hooked a large arm around my shoulders and pulled me to him in a side-hug.

For the remaining twenty minutes of the school's lunch period, Sam and I went up and down all sorts of halls. When the bell rang for class to continue, Sam and I froze in place, staring at each other from opposite sides of the second grade room where we were scanning for sulfur trails.

"Janitor's closet, I said absentmindedly.

"Way ahead of you," Sam said, flinging his bag strap over his head as we both bolted to the door.

"Come on, I saw one this way, " I skidded to a halt in the middle of the hallway outside the classroom we inspected. I tugged on the back of his duffel bag and he whirled around after me as I sprinted to the closet down the hall.

Reaching the door clearly marked as our hiding-spot-of-choice, I jingled the knob—locked. Sam quickly removed his lock picks, knelt down on one knee, and expertly unlatched the bolt inside the door.

Stuffing his metal tools in his jumper pocket, he flung open the door and I slid quietly into the closet. Darkness dropped around me as Sam stepped in and silently shut the door.

He moved closer, inching away from the door.

"_Ouch,"_ I whispered, yanking my foot from under his mammoth clown shoe.

"Sorry," he breathed.

I made a low noise, making my way to the back of the space. I touched what felt like a metallic shelf; complete with jugs of cleaner and grimy feeling washrags in a plastic bucket. "Got room?"

"No. You?"

"No." We kept our voices to a minimal for fear of being overheard and we kept to our feet, in case the need for a fast escape came in order. Besides, the closet was only about ten square feet in area, so you can imagine the leftover space as constricting.

The next five minutes were spent as charading statues—still, silent, unblinking. Sam and I listened to the shuffling of small feet arranged in a line and tiny ignorant voices spewing off stories or curious questions outside of our door. The teachers' voices were audible half-way down the hall in their admonishing the unruly children, too. Quickly though, the noise liquidated and the ruckus of the school bell sent through the halls.

I heard Sam shift around as his obscure darkened shape stepped to the door. A sliver of synthetic light pierced my eyes. I batted it away with my eyelids when Sam leaned into the hall, scoping the perimeter. He then pushed the door ajar and motioned that it was okay to come out.

I rubbed my eyes. They were stinging from the sudden optic transitions.

"What now?" I asked. I was beginning to think coming here in the daylight hours was the wrong idea. But then again, I didn't think we'd accomplish much in an abandoned elementary school in the dead of night, either.

Sam checked his watch. "Maybe we should join up with Dean. As much as I hate to give up and say it, I don't think we are going to find anything now."

"Yeah," I agreed, disheartened.

I walked in-step with Sam as we strolled through the halls. My head whirled with ideas. Maybe we wouldn't find the demons unless we accosted them with the word 'Christo'. I thought of the last time I remembered Sam and Dean actually using Christo against a demon—I couldn't recall it.

With my face twisting into unexpected realization. I said, "We won't find them just by doing this. We need to find out who they are, so that means you have to confront some people and ask some questions," I faced him, elaborating, "I mean, when was the last time you said 'Christo' to find out who the demons were? You guys really need to pick that up again, because on your own, you guys kinda suck. Just saying."

He took a humored offense to my statement and leaned back, jerking his head as if mentally going 'What?'. He continued forward. Sam pretended to be hurt, but the tiny wry smile in the nook of his mouth betrayed him.

I laughed. "I'm serious, you need to use it more. We should probably go to the front office or something and just say it and see if we get a reaction."

"No. We don't need to create a scene—"

I stared at him. He stopped when he realized my gaze.

"What?" he said.

"I can't believe you just said that. You are supposed to be smart," I said bluntly, and then sped up my pace.

"What did I say?" he called after me, "Seriously, Eve. What?" He raised his arms and then let them fall, smacking his sides. He caught up to me as I turned a corner.

It was then when Sam's phone rang. He lifted it out of his pocket and answered, "Got anything?"

Dean was on the other end. He said a few words. Meanwhile, an overcast shadow of horrified dread struck Sam's face.

Sam said, "Okay on our way." He hung up pressing the button on the keypad. His gaze lingered on the screen longer than necessary.

Oh no.

"What's wrong?"

"The demons," Sam said, "Are the kids."


	22. Chapter 21

Chapter Twenty-One:

Dread took home in my stomach and my chest felt like a knotted rope. The taste on my tongue turned bitter and I recognized it as pre-upchuck bile.

The possibility that we might murder innocent children today, maybe in a matter of minutes—I did not want to think about it. I couldn't.

"Sam," I barely recognized my own voice.

We remained motionless. Sam and I felt like we were suspended in time. Each complete with our own set of strings. The world around us kept in motion, but we were stuck in this harsh reality and time was the enemy. It kept us in place, unable to move because if we did, we would surely regret it.

He slid his phone into the front pocket of his blue jumpsuit, his hazel eyes depositing on mine.

I yearned to tell him there was another way; that we would find it. If I spoke the lie, I would be doing us both an injustice. I clamped my mouth shut.

He pressed his lips together, his face emanating the words he wanted to say. "Come on," he said thinly, as if the two syllables were laced with ricin. "Dean's outside."

Quietly, and laden with a morose pain set in our bones, we retraced our steps out to the Impala. When we exited the school, the doors clunked loudly.

The noise caught Dean mid-thought. He stood up from the fender and set his full beer bottle on the black of the hood. He stepped toward us without saying a word.

Dean had already changed out of his pest control disguise. And if you add that onto his steady, rhythmic motions that only one who anticipated mourning would carry, I just _knew. _Dean hated this situation. Just as much as Sammy and I did.

The presence of it was acrid and full of molded decay in his mind and heart…but he was a Hunter. He would do what he had to do.

It was part of the job.

"I saw two of them—third graders. They were harassing some poor kid about something, trying to scare him. It worked, y'know, once they showed him their eyes." Dean shook his head as he recalled the scene, "He started screaming and crying in the hall. I saw the whole thing." Dean's face spoke the word '_bastards'_ at the end of that sentence.

_Poor kid._ A prickle of energy rippled down my spine as I remembered how it felt with one of those nightmares inside me. To think, these kids, however many there were, were going through the same thing I had. The spikes of never-ending burning, and the constant sensation of being disemboweled. Your heart feeling as if it was being torn open, sewn back together, and then ripped apart once again. Then there was the seething pain, as if you were wrapped in hot metal—so ridiculously hot it _cut _into your skin like a blade. And not only that, but it was _everywhere_—on your skin, in your eyes, swimming in your veins.

No one should ever have to be victim to such agony. It was beyond toleration.

"What are we going to do?" I asked, feeling as if I was floating on drift wood in the middle of the Pacific.

I saw Sam glance at me and then he met his brother's eyes.

Dean shifted his weight to his right foot, scrounging for the right words. "What we can," he paused, "We'll see what they do after school lets out."

I looked to the ground, my lower lip sliding over my top lip in thought.

Sam added as a precaution, "Eve, we might have to—"

"Yeah," I said sharply, avoiding the end of that sentence, "I know. I can do it."

I could feel Sam's perennial doubt for one second too many and then it was gone.

Dean evaded my gaze by tinkering with his handgun. He held it close to his stomach, much like one would keep a newborn close. Dean shoved the magazine up into the weapon, the metal executing forward with an unblunted snap.

"All right," Dean's eyes finally grazed mine. He exhaled as he tucked his gun inside his jacket.

"I can do it," I repeated. The air of hesitation I was receiving from Sam and Dean was like a cocoon, and I was the caterpillar.

"I know you can," Dean commented seriously, his tone absent of sarcasm. "That's what scares me."

I glanced at Sam and he gave me an uneasy smile. I could tell the feeling was mutual between the brothers. They were just apprehensive; wary for the next time I might hurt myself, so they could, and would, stop it.

Just to be clear though, I would do it. I would do it again. I would take anything for them in a heartbeat. And something deep down told me they would for me too.

I just hoped, when the time came for me to depart from my new family that they would not interfere. It was for the best. My time would end here, but theirs had to go on to bigger and greater things.

They were meant to save the world one day.

* * *

The elementary school didn't release the students until 3:00. Up until then, the three of us sat down the street from the school, parallel to the road. Sam buried his head into John's journal and he ultimately reached the back cover, having found nothing of importance. Dean took a short nap after guzzling down a beer. And I resorted to playing with my knife again.

By the time the bell rang its freedom ring, Dean had awoken and Sam and I got in a game of 'I Spy'. Sure, it was all fun and games, but what had happened thus far was just a coffee break. The real challenge was just about to present itself.

When Dean sat straighter, Sam caught notice and mirrored his brother. Both boys sat attentive, faces turned and their eyes fixated on the school as if tunnel vision had set in.

Cars had lined up like dominoes in front of the school. When the kids came, it was slowly at first, like the creeping trod of a box turtle, and then all at once like the waves of the ocean at high tide. In clumps, they left their educational day in the dust, and in clumps, the number of kids became fewer and fewer.

"What do they look like?" I asked.

"One has read hair and freckles. The other is kinda—" he started making indistinguishable hand gestures around his head, and then froze. "There," he said.

Dean's eyes followed two children—a boy with dark skin and a shaved head, and a girl with wiry read hair and freckles peppering her nose—as they crossed the crosswalk and entered the recreation building across the street.

"Let's move," Dean grunted as he got out of the car.

We hustled up to the light colored building. On three sides it was the color of pearls, and then covering the expanse of the fourth wall was a mural of kids from every age and ethnicity playing on a sunny hillside.

Sam opened the glass door at the top of three cement steps and we halted inside—momentarily clueless. Sam, Dean, and I gave each other a glance and a plan was set in motion.

Dean smacked his eye-catching smile on his face and stepped up to the front counter.

"Hey…Peggy," he said, getting a whiff of that strange name, "I am new in town and want to see what a, uh," Dean's eyes snapped to the poster just beyond the middle-aged woman's head. He read the range of membership prices printed on it and spat out, "month's membership will—"

"Entail," Sam finished, though Dean had gotten out the beginnings of the word before he said anything.

Dean's tone was expertly, teasingly fake. "Of course little brother. Thanks for the help," he went back to the Peggy woman, "And if we can get any package deals." Dean raised his eyebrows.

"Yeah," agreed Sam, taking part in the façade. I saw him slide a hand behind his back out of the corner of my eye. He shook that hand, signaling for me to go scope out the place.

The woman let out a sigh. It was one of those 'kill me' exhales. This woman was obviously missing out on sleep and wanted to punch someone's face in. Her thin face was flushed out next to her platinum blonde hair, making her eyebrows almost invisible and stressing her annoyed persona.

I scratched my nose, signaling back. Then I stepped away from the counter. Sneaking away from the front desk and into the wide hallway off to the right, I glanced back to Dean and Sam. They both saw.

And Dean forced a brighter smile at Peggy. "Love me some package deals."

In order to sell the show, Sam nodded a few times and smiled, his brow going halfway up into his hair.

I tiptoed out of their range of sight and I walked down the hall as if I'd been here many times before. A men's locker room was to my left. Bullet proof windows slid like a slithering snake all along the curving wall to my right. They were patterned to appear like the mini squares in waffles with the base of the wall resembling ice glass.

Adults, both male and female, were exercising on the mechanical equipment beyond the wall, inside a large room. TVs were on the rear wall and all the bikes, treadmills, and muscle-toning machines were angled to face them.

I passed that room only to end up at the rear of the recreation center where medical-room-looking doors lead to an indoor pool. I turned down a short hall when I heard mock sirens from toy police cars, tinkling laughter like sleigh bells, and the peaceful commotion of kids at play.

Following the hall as it made a U-turn, I stopped when I came across a Dutch door. Only its bottom half was secured shut, so I could see through the top half and into the room.

Inside, it was obvious that the purpose of this room was to serve as a daycare center. Colorful foam puzzle pieces covered the floor tile with letters from the alphabet and toy chests, sorting containers, and miniature kitchens with plastic food had their places against the walls. With their mouths wide open and their contents strewn on the Hot Wheels friendly carpets and in the arms of imaginative children, the toy boxes were purged.

A cluster of tables was off to the side, joined with a few children coloring in superhero coloring books or destroying the paper with finger paint. Cabinets clung to the wall nearest them, the providers of their art supplies, and where the book bags belonging to the kids rested on top.

This room had about thirteen-or-so kids from the elementary school—two of which we already established were possessed. And supervising this surprisingly well-behaved group of types were three adults—one man and two women.

One of the two women had her brunette hair pulled back into a tight ponytail; her lemon yellow polo tucked in her jeans, and was unknowingly assisting demon-infested-kid-number-one. She leaned over the middle circle table, one hand on the flat surface, as she said something to the red-haired, dress-and-white-socks-combo-wearing demon child in the orange chair next to her. On the table appeared to be some math worksheets. Homework.

Well, you took the body of the kid. I guess you gotta act like one too.

Though with as many toys like this, homework would be the _last _thing on my eight-year- old brain.

Without thinking, I found myself magnetized to the door. Both of my hands were on the bridge of the lower half. "Excuse me?" I called.

I caught the attention of the older woman who was sitting on a stool in the middle of the space. She paused her place, the fire engine red picture book dropping in her hands. She told the bundle of four kids at her feet that she would be right back, and then she set the book on the head of the stool and approached me.

Her frosty hair barely reached the edge of her jar and it curled like talons at the tips. Her walk was burdened with a limp; the noticeable (at least to me) remnants of a knee replacement. Her name was Mary Lee and she was probably in her seventies.

"May I help you?" Mary Lee asked. The twinkle in her eye was unmistakable when she said, "You look a bit too old for story time, dear."

I smiled, automatically taking a liking to this woman. "Yeah, I am a bit old," I agreed, "I was actually just talking to the lady at the front desk about volunteering with the kids here and she told me to come see you."

Just winging it here. A jump into the dark.

"Ah, yes. The new recruit is here Molly!" she hollered over her shoulder.

Whew.

The woman with the ponytail looked up and grinned. "Yay! Let's get her started right away," Molly's jubilant voice was that of someone entirely too elated with living.

Mary Lee unlatched the door for me after checking the silver watch on her hand. "You got here just in time for swimming lessons. What's your name dear?"

Behind her, the man about 5'7" and skin resembling that of a pumpkin pie stood up and smoothed his bright yellow polo against his stomach. His dark complexion crashed catastrophically with his shirt. Arms extended, he told the kids to line up.

"Emily," I said.

The 'swimming lessons' should have served as the first sign…

Excitedly, the kids all popped up like popcorn and filed out of the room, brushing past me. One by one, they marched to the pool.

Fully clothed.

Second sign.

The caboose of the line was a little girl with blonde braided pigtails and an innocent countenance. With a sweet smile and big blue eyes she tugged on my jacket sleeve and said, "Can I hold your hand?"

"Of course you can. What's your name?" I held my hand out for her to grasp.

She must've been only six years old, but she had an iron grip. "Lacy Monroe."

As we walked to the pool, I noticed her timid behavior. She shielded herself behind me and chewed her fingernails.

Almost through the doors, I saw a blur of movement just down the hall. I looked up in time to see Dean and Sam. They gave me looks.

The doors closed.

This is when my red flag began to raise. The indoor pool area was completely barren despite the twenty of us just entering. The waster was deathly still. The air was stale and had an unnatural mass in my lungs.

I was acutely aware of the child holding onto me. Her clamp was developing ever tighter on me. I glanced down at her and then knelt down.

"Lacy," I said, as if nothing was out of the ordinary. "Do you not know how to swim?"

She shook her head and then shoved her thumb into her mouth, her index finger scratching the bridge of her nose.

"Then what is it?" My concern slid from Lacy to the three adults walking around the pool's rim.

One adult for three of the four sides—each stopped in the center, legs spread apart and arms down by their sides. Their gaze buried beneath the clear surface of the water.

Ever so carefully, Lacy moved closer to me and whispered, "The boogie man got my friends."

I took my head away from her. "Lacy. You need to tell me which kids the boogie man didn't get."

She wormed her fist out of mine and held up her finger.

"Okay," I whispered. "Listen to me. I'm going to get you back to your mommy and daddy if it's the last thing I do. Stay by me, I'll keep you safe."

She nodded and folded her body into mine, her head going slack against my chest. I stood gradually, seeking her hand again.

Twenty people. Eighteen demons. One Lacy. One me.

What could possibly go wrong?

"Please." The voice came from the elderly lady, from across the pool. The man and other woman grinned at her as if they could not wait to get their hands bloody.

"Please," Mary Lee said again, her eyes meeting mine, even from such a distance. "Stay awhile. We're just preparing a Jacuzzi for the children."

When she said 'children' I immediately thought _snake_. My head ran amuck, going a hundred miles per hour and getting to no specified location. What was I going to do?

"Come here," I breathed, only thinking of Lacy when I scooped her up into my arms.

I ran back to the doors, my eyes darting through the rectangular window to the hall outside. I freed an arm from under Lacy and yanked on the door. I pushed, I shoved, and I jingled the metal bar.

Dean and Sam rounded the corner and I banged on the door with my palm, smacking the glass. Dean and Sam saw and rushed to the door.

"No use," said a different voice.

I pivoted, covering the window with my body. The woman named Molly sneered at me.

"Sorry," she brought her hands up to her shoulders and wriggled her fingers, "Witch."

My heart thundered in my chest. The fear in the trembles of Lacy's body had my mind on a race—if anyone wasn't going to die today it'd be her.

"Yeah? Well you know what else you are?" Dead." Like a bat fits into a NBL player's hand, my gun conformed to my grip and an explosion of bullets ripped from the weapon. Each sound pierced the silence of the room and Lacy screamed, the pressuring noise scaring her.

Maneuvering around the pool, I tucked my face into her head, shielding her best to my ability and kept firing.

The child demons scrambled. The man got hit four times in the stomach. Mary Lee took a bullet to the shoulder.

"Focus on the water!" Mary Lee barked at the witch.

Wasting no time to watch her recite a spell, I shot at Molly.

Suddenly, it was as if I was hit by a truck. My head snapped painfully back and cracked against the wall that had previously been yards behind me. My spine yelled, blaming me prejudicely for this undesired tangibility. Next to me Lacy screamed, also pinned to the wall. Her small fingers from her left hand were all that I felt of her, but I knew she was in just as much pain as I was.

My gun was about twenty feet in front of me—how it got there, I do not know but it was useless to me now.

I heard a pounding in my ears. At first I thought it was my heart struggling to keep itself together, but then it dimly registered in my brain that is was actually Sam and Dean trying to break their way through the door.

The kid demons lined up next to the edge of the water—occupying the fourth side of the pool. They peered into the water like horses ready for a drink. Some watched as the Molly's hands rose in the air and muttered incantations.

Though all of this had happened in a span of a few blinks of an eye, I could only watch like a lethargic patient in a hospital ward—my brain wrongly taking in every second as an hour.

To my heart-numbing horror, I realized the pool water was _steaming._ Heat floated off the surface in tiny coiling wisps hot enough to burn. Miniscule bubbles popped at the surface, but then grew three and four times their size, bursting like oversized pustules on diseased skin.

"_I want my mommy!"_ Lacy shrieked.

A coarse peel of laughter rose up with the steam.

I faced Lacy, much to my labor. "I know Lacy. Lacy, you need to stay calm. Stay calm for me, okay?"

My gaze kept hers stationary; calm. This one contact expressed just how crucial it was for her to keep her head. Her eyes became blue pools welled up with tears.

She was terrified.

"I know," I whispered to her, wincing, "I know."

The pool bubbled profusely as if powered by jets. Steam stuck to the walls, burned my eyes and skin, and warmed the room to sauna temperature.

The doors continued to take blows from Sam and Dean. From the rumbling trailing through my head, I could only imagine their faces.

"Hey!" I spat. "You!"

They ignored me.

"Christo!"

Seventeen pairs of shiny tar black eyes glared back at me.

"Yeah. You know you ugly," I commented snarkily, "Exorcizamus te-!"

Automatically, I fell to my knees, the bone slamming into the peachy tile. Glancing up, I saw the demons squirm uncomfortably.

I shoved Lacy into the corner. "Don't move," I ordered.

She cowered, planted where she was set.

I ran across the floor, "Omnis immundus spiritus!"

_Bang!_

I flinched, seeing Dean and Sam burst through the doors.

_No!_

Sam and Dean rocketed head-long into the wall nearest them.

My heart lurched. "Sam! Dean!" I charged at the elderly woman, Mary Lee.

She held a hand up and suddenly I was frozen. Every muscle in my body felt like it was being pushed through a paper shredder.

Mary Lee looked pleased with herself. I loathed that.

"You are…something, aren't you, little Hunter?"

"She's annoying," said the man. He stood at the other end of the pool with his arms crossed.

"I was actually going to say she is a pain in the ass."

"Only because you called for it," I grimaced, pain spiking.

She swiped her hand through the air and I was propelled at the wall to my left like a rock into a plane propeller. Hitting a glass window with nothing but bone, I was showered with shards. Many landed on cloth or leather, but there was a good number that sliced up my lips, eyelids, and face, and anchored themselves in my hair. I only felt zings of pain from the glass, because my left shoulder was roaring with tormented tenderness.

I tried rolling out of the window and too my feet, but my feet didn't register and I hit the ground with a thump. I tried picking myself up—my elbows shook underneath my weight and then I collapsed into a clump. I felt blood on my lips. I was caught in a daze because my vision was failing due to the volume of pain the rest of me was experiencing.

"Eve!" sounded from two different mouths at the same time and bounced off the walls.

Mary Lee turned back to the witch, a satisfied smile wiring her mouth. "Time to go, kids."

The demon children, who had, up to this point, been quiet observers, stepped to the edge of the pool and careened over the boiling death-trap. Glancing from one to another, each kid leapt into the pool.

One after the other, they plopped into the boiling water. It hissed gleefully as they went under and kissed their skin, pink, red, and blister.

"Omnis satanica postestas!" I shouted the next line of the exorcism.

Somewhere around me, Sam took up the next line. "Omnis incursio!"

Then Dean, "Infernalis adversarii!"

Finding strength I could bare my weight on, I got to my feet and launched myself at Mary Lee before I could topple over again.

In a flash, I shoved her in. She went down with surprise all over her face. A ring of hot water flooded over her head before she came back up.

I slung a hand into my jacket pocket and pulled out a beaded cross necklace. Mumbling the words as fast as possible, I chucked the necklace into the water after Mary Lee.

Eyes enlarging in the agony of realization, the demons writhed in the holy water. They screamed and scrambled to climb out of the pool. They climbed over each other and clawed at the walls of the pool, thinking of only one thing—relief.

"Omnis legio!" Sam yelled, as I ran towards the demon marching towards me.

His excessively tanned arms were open wide but something told me he didn't crave a hug.

Out of the corner of my eye, demons spilt out of the water. Red-faced, peeling skin and blister covered, they wailed. Sam and Dean dove at them, no longer chained to the wall.

"Get the witch!" I shouted, diving under the male demon and out of his enclosing grasp. Between his legs, I slid. Once I cleared his legs I hopped to my feet.

As he turned, my knuckles went for the one-two punch, where his cheek bone would be the recipient. "Only one person is allowed to call me annoying—" he caught my fist—my eyes doubled—so I changed tactics and elbowed him in the jaw. Then I threw my head into his.

God dang. I will feel _that _later. Talk about Cranium damage. I'll probably go into a coma.

I wobbled a bit to the side. "And that is certainly not you," I finished, roundhouse kicking him into the pool. I let overworked breaths go from my lungs, my fists clenched by my sides and my knees trembling faintly.

"Omnis congregatio!" I roared.

Every time a verse was said, the demons involuntarily interrupted their advancements on my boys to thrash from affliction.

"Et sectadiabolica!" Dean puffed, darting around the pool, gaining on the witch.

Prepared, she faced him. A seed of fire bloomed in both of her palms. Molly aimed these orbs at Dean and let them loose.

Face and body twisting to avoid the heated projectiles, his arms flung behind him and his head ducked and swung. With each passing flame, he got even more dangerously close to a burning.

Much to my fear, Dean suddenly yelled out and doubled over, holding his face in his hand.

Molly went up to him, saying some sort of incantation under her breath. A dark ember-like twinkle entered her eyes as Dean dropped fully onto his knees.

"Dean!"

He tried getting up. He tried finding his feet, but he only ended up where he began; on the floor, eyes shut and teeth clenched.

Suddenly, the beaded cross necklace shot out of the water and hooked itself around my neck. Staggering back and forward again, I tugged at the cord strangling me. I coughed profusely. Simultaneously, my ankle was seized roughly by a slight, bony hand with swollen arthritic fingers. My arms went over my head when I was yanked forcibly onto my back. I lay there, victimized to more blunt-force trauma as Mary Lee crawled out of the pool—her hand using my leg as a rope and her fingers tearing into my skin like the teeth of a snarling dog.

My eyes rolled and I flipped myself on my stomach, attempting to kick her off and crawl away. It was no use. She just pulled me back, grabbed me by my collar, and hoisted me into the air as if I was only a babe.

The beaded necklace dropped to the dampened ground, completely spent.

"Oh hey," I said, "How's it going?" My voice was set in a hoarse mock tone, but my nose scrunched up, having come within inches of her boil ridden face.

Her skin speared less wrinkled due to the overkill of skin peeling off of her forehead cheeks, and nose—a sort of sticky excretion leaked from her ruptured pustules just above her right eye and the goop now slid down over that eye.

"Goin' good, I see," I went on, trying to keep my eyes from going back to the pale yellowish bodily juice running down her face.

"You call this good? You ruined our plans and now I look like the Black Death reborn!" She blinked, and for a moment she switched demeanor, "Still, it was a lovely time. But I _will_ make you pay anyway."

"I have like fifty dollars in my jacket…if you want that? Though I wouldn't encourage this sort of 'bully stole my lunch money' play. You have any idea the emotional turmoil it could put me through?"

"_Shut up!"_ She let go of me with one hand and wrapped it around my neck. Holding me aloft, she stepped to the pool, and like a rag doll, I dangled dangerously above the scalding water.

Steam enveloped my ankles like vines reaching to taste the warmth of the sun, and I could feel the heat of the water seeping through the soles of my shoes. I hastily grasped onto Mary Lee's arm, desperately trying to alleviate my airway of pressure.

I glanced past Mary Lee to Sam, who was too far away to help me. Demon-kids climbed all over him—he tripped. He went down kicking—one, two, three kids' bodies smacked the water again. He found his feet, continually pushing them back into the water, having no other choice. The numbers weren't exactly on his side. On our side.

Dean was another story. Though he really was a one-man SWAT team, this witch really knew where all the kinks in his armor were. Her lean arms were around his neck and she was tightening her grip around it.

His face was red—from lack of oxygen or the nasty burn, I couldn't tell. Dean struggled, with her riding on him like a child, until he decided to end it by flipping her over his shoulder onto her back. From there, he was able to sling down and stab her in the neck with the demon knife, his arm swinging like a boxer executes an uppercut. The witch was dead on contact.

My eyes went back to Mary Lee. Her sharp gray coal stone eyes stared into my soul. A venomous, scarily sharp-toothed grin unzipped her lips.

"Not today," I choked raspily.

Using all my strength, I pulled my legs up under me and then kicked at her abdomen. The single fluid movement provided all the force I needed to send her reeling back.

I dropped (something I did not foresee, though I really should have because gravity sucks).

I had already been halfway under when I latched onto the side of the pool and wrenched myself out. Hissing, seething pain soared to new heights immediately and I yelled out, tears licking my cheeks. Gasping, I inched my way to the demon, reciting what Dean had taught me so well. "Ergo draco maledicte et omnis legio diabolica adjuramus te!"

Mary Lee squirmed, her eyes like daggers. They screamed murder.

And like a choir synchronizes, Sam and Dean joined in for the last ballad. Together, we exorcised the demons. "_Ab insidiis diabolic, libera nos, domine."_

I swung at Mary Lee—my inner Jackie Chan working magic. The demon's nose bled and bones cracked.

"_Ut ecclesiam tum secura tibi facias liberatate servire, te rogamys, audi nos!"_

All at once, black smoke inflated in the air and the bodies were cleansed of their demons. I watched as the puffs escaped through the vents in the ceiling, all cramming into one another as if they couldn't get away quickly enough.

I turned to Mary Lee. She moved slowly into consciousness, blinking awake and unaware of where she was.

I made my way to her side, "Mary Lee, you're safe. You are okay now."

She stared at me, wide-eyed and mute.

I set a hand on her arm, in comfort. "You're okay now," I repeated.

She swallowed. "Do you do this often?"

"Not specifically…this." Technicality does count, you know.

"Then sweetheart, you have a condition." She placed two fingers underneath her nose and looked at the blood from her wound. She set her hand back under her nose to stop the bleeding. "And a hell-of-a right hook."

I smiled, more or less proud of my work. "I learned from the best." I stood, "Come on, let me help you up."

She got to her feet, most of her weight supported by me. "What was that—that thing?"

I hooked my arm around her side and helped her to the hall. "That. Was a demon."

"Was this all a ploy just to get me to go to church?"

"No. Y'see it's our job. Me and my brothers do this sort of thing for a living. I'm kinda new at it and I already know the pay is crap, but we save people. And that is what makes it worth it."

The pool water was silenced once again, the last of the bubbles rising to the surface to pop.

In the midst of the brawl, Dean found his way to Sam's side and they both helped get the kids to safety. Everyone, minus Sam, was horrifically burned. Some kids even made it to the third-degree sector and needed medical attention pronto.

Dean carried two of the most critical cases in his arms and he rushed out into the hall. Sam did the same and then came back for more crying, cringing children.

I limped outside, my burns catching up to me at last and helped Mary Lee to the floor so she could rest. She leaned her head against the wall. Just as I was about to go back for some kids, she took hold of my sleeve.

"No one will believe this," she said.

"Lie," I told her. Then I cleared myself of her weak grasp and went back into the pool area.

Sam came in after me, "Hurry," he grabbed another pair of kids, "The woman at the front called 911."

I worked faster.

Quickly, all the kids were either sitting or lying in the hall. Some were screaming, but all were crying.

I stopped. Two people were missing. I ran back into the indoor pool.

"Sam!"

Sam came in, adrenaline still fueling him.

I pointed into the water, where the motionless body of the Jersey Shore man lay at the bottom of the pool.

Sam dipped his hand cautiously into the water. Seeing it safe, he ripped his jacket off and dove into the water.

I turned my attentions to the corner of the room. Of all the fighting and all that could have gone wrong, Lacy remained where I told her to stay. I walked over to her and knelt down. I peeled her arms from over her head and told her, "See? I told you you were going to stay safe. Let's get you outside."

I picked her up in my arms, the silent fragile little girl, and I made my way back to the door.

Sam gasped for air upon breaking the surface of the water. The man in his arm wasn't moving—Sam shoved him up onto drier floor.

I held Lacy's head close to mine, watching as Sam checked the man for a pulse. After a few bouts of unproductive CPR, Sam sat back, hopeless and guild ridden.

I set Lacy in the hall next to Mary Lee and told her it would be okay. After, I returned to Sam. I stood behind the bent man, with his head in his hands. I set my hand on his shoulder.

"I know," I mumbled. "Me too."

He lifted his head and gave me an empty smile. He stood and we left the man we couldn't save in time there on the water-coated floor.

Dean was in the hallway when we came back. With wads of paper towels he must've found in the restroom. He applied damp ones to the wounds of every child in the hall. Working feverishly and ardently, he ensured that the children would be okay.

"Just like new," he kept saying.

I heard the faint sounds of sirens in the distance.

Sam did too, and stopped Dean from making a second full round. "Dean, we have to go."

Dean reluctantly withdrew his hand from a nine-year-old's jaw. He set the kid's hand on the paper towels there, in place of his own hand. He got to his feet.

"Yeah, you're right." Dean said, "Let's get out of here."

Arm-in-arm and using each other as much needed support, we took the back exit out to the car.

The last look I ever got from Lacy Monroe will forever be entrapped in the tracks of my memory. Her blue eyes traveled through me, watching me as I passed, as if I were abandoning her after such a terrifying ordeal.

In hindsight, I was. I had to. No attachments.

But I had attached myself. To Lacy. And now I was leaving.

My heart clenched.

The metal screeched as the doors shut us out, and Lacy disappeared from view.

And stiffly, achily, the three of us got into the Impala and drove off.

* * *

Four hours or so later and on the state line somewhere, Dean finally allowed us a stop to patch ourselves up. Parking next to a Shell station, I leapt out of the car and made my way to the restroom.

Once behind a closed door, I gingerly exited from my drenched clothes. Stinging wells of tears blurred my vision when I felt my burnt skin being stripped off along with my jeans. Pink, raw skin was exposed to the air and I whimpered.

Reluctantly, I set wet paper towels on my legs and cleansed them of any bacteria. I bit down on my tongue—God, this is always what I hate about injuries. I hated cleaning them.

After minutes of doing this, there was a tapping on the door.

"Occupied," I rather rudely shouted.

"It's me. You're going to need some bandages," Sam said.

Slowly, I climbed my way to my feet and opened the door. I stuck my arm through the gap. Two rolls of thick wrapping material and a tin container filled with bandages and other necessities landed in my hand.

Through the crack, he said, "Bad?"

"Yeah. Stings."

"Take your time. Dean just has a few bruises and that burn on his face."

"What about you?"

"Eh. Some scratches. A bruise or two."

"Lucky guy," I remarked.

"Yeah I am. So are those kids."

I shut the door.

* * *

That night, the only beds we had were the seats of the Impala (in fact, it would be like this most nights in the following year). Dean parked the car on the side of the road somewhere and pulled the keys from the ignition.

Sam tucked his arm under his head and sagged down into the most comfortable position he could muster. Like this, he would sleep for a few hours.

Dean and I however, would not be so lucky.

After twenty minutes of restlessness, Dean opened his door and got out of the car.

I picked my head up off my seat, curious. Quietly, I followed him out—Sam was already stone-cold _out._ Lucky son of a gun.

Dean sat on the trunk of the car, his left foot up on the bumper and his lips to a beer newly opened.

"Can't sleep?" I asked.

"Nope. Can you?"

I shook my head. He tapped the spot next to him; I sat down.

"You still have nightmares?" I asked, "About—" I kept myself from saying 'hell'.

He nodded into his beverage. "Yeah, well. Who wouldn't?"

"That's why you drink so much."

He set the bottle on his thigh, turning to look at me. The left side of his face was covered in white tape and a mound of gauze—the burns from the witch on his cheek were beneath it.

"I drink so much because every time I close my eyes, I see things I never wanted to see, to _feel,_ again. And I drink because it's numbing. It blocks out the things I don't want to feel. So I become this empty, pathetic shell of a man with nothing less than a drinking habit."

"You can't possibly view yourself with such distaste," I said. His confession hurt even me.

He shrugged.

Another arrow to my chest.

Dean took another swig of his alcohol. The swift motions cause the tape on his cheek to crinkle.

The air around us was frail and crisp, as if autumn was setting in the summer months. The night was peaceful, still, and the moon was out only source of light. Some owls hooed and crickets chirped in the bushed. Trees loomed, the proud skyscrapers of nature.

It was a nice night out.

"Thanks," I muttered, rubbing my legs bound in wrappings. They still burned.

Dean gave me a look. _I didn't do anything._

"Just—somewhere along the way, you thought I was worth saving."

At first he despised my very presence. Now I just wondered what altered his mind.

"You want to know why, don't you?"

I was quiet, waiting for him to go on.

Softer, he said, "Because I saw someone I knew in you."

I gave him a questioning look. "Please don't say 'Bobby'."

He grinned, looking at the grass below his boot. "Me," he said, "Ever since I first saw you, I knew right there. You were a fighter. You keep on truckin', no matter how screwed up it gets. The fight's always alive with you still breathin' and hell. That sounds a lot like me."

He leaned in closer, lowering his voice even more, "And that's why you just had to stick around. No 'ifs', 'ands' or 'buts'."

I smiled.

"I realized you were a keeper that first practice run out in that field—when you shot your first bottle and did the Snoopy Dance," he said, the thought bringing a smirk to his face.

I leaned into him, laying my head on his shoulder, finally feeling at peace. An unrelenting weariness set itself on my eyelids.

I yawned. "I knew you were a keeper when you brought that pack of m&ms as your provisions on that one hunt."

"When was that?" He didn't remember.

"Season One." I yawned again, my eyes drooping closed (at least for the next half-hour).

****Wrote a whopper for ya there. Hope you liked it! :) ****


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